Halsion Days
by Mirwalker
Summary: An untold story of how Legolas resisted passing into the West until his friends had passed away, and at what cost his passage came. Sequel to my "Travel as the Sun."
1. Chapter 1

**HALSION DAYS**

by Mirwalker

"Alas for us all! And for all that walk the world in these after-days.  
For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running stream."

--Legolas to Gimli, in Farewell to Lorien, Chapter VIII, _The Lord of the Rings_

NOTE: This story is a sequel to my previous LOTR story, _Travel as the Sun_. I would suggest reading that first for plot and character backstory.

* * *

**Chapter One**

His literally sharp ears detected no sound, while his pointed nose found only the faintest, if ever present, scent of pine. From those same trees, he sensed nothing amiss; yet, he could not shake the inexplicable tension that had surrounded him as he climbed this rise along the cliffside. Peering cautiously around him, he crept forward as the underbrush thickened among the less sparse trunks.

The trampled brush had clearly led in this direction. Though the destruction was not so great as in the softer growth further back toward camp, whatever had been uprooting trees and destroying their newly planted saplings certainly seemed to have passed this way as well. Having tracked it this far, he knew the princes would be pleased to know who or what had been sabotaging their restoration in the past weeks.

Ahead, he heard a heavy rustling. Looking about, he decided the dense limbs and foliage of the trees here would make taking to them useless. Notching an arrow in his bow, he inched forward toward the thicket ahead, mindful of the narrowing shelf that dropped off well to his right.

Above the ledge, the cliff reached out into the air, creating an overhang—a perfect location for a nest or den. But for what? Picking his way slowly, he paused between each step to reassess and reacquire the prey. Moving cautiously toward the grotto, he strained all his senses to sense the strain with which the woods around him coursed.

Expecting to find only some subtle traces of his prey, he was surprised when, there among the rocks, a great shape heaved mightily in the shadows. Shadows! An anxiety he'd not felt since Mirkwood was still Mirkwood swept through him. And yet, this was not quite the same; where the haunts of Mirkwood had felt clearly wrong and evil, this was simply… not right.

He squinted and sniffed, trying to make out the nature and notion of this unsettling and unfamiliar presence. Both of them. All!

A motion beside him.

A roar as near as loud.

A large, dark shape above him.

A step aside to avoid it, finding nothing below his foot.

Falling…

* * *

Miles to the northwest, along the same tall ridge, grew a small settlement, remarkable in that it blended with the forest around it in ways so simple and ingenuous that one could not help but marvel at its organic unity. If one noticed it at all.

It was built, in fact, with the eye-pleasing invisibility that only elves could craft. Among the few men who had ever seen any elven community, and among the fewer still who had returned to tell, this collection of clustered groundhomes and scattered tree flets would have suggested a particularly plain elegance. Not even a single hand's count of humans would know by appearance that this place had been built by the humblest of elves, the simple woodfolk of Silvan kindred. For, though many mortals had heard that the tree spirits had come down from the Great Mirkwood, not one elf had been glimpsed among the trees since they took leave of the King and Prince and entered the forest to make it well and make it home more than two generations ago.

For even among the Elves, both those earlier realms and those few scattered enclaves still remaining, this group was reclusive. Though the Dark Lord had passed and his minions scattered, these elves in their former forest home had learned well the security of secrecy, and had continued that caution beyond the clear dangers of the last age. Their shy and secluded nature had served them well in the last centuries among dragons, goblins and Shadow. And now they had little interest in seeing or being seen by men, as their work on the forests was great and their stay in the woods of Ithilien was to be brief.

Indeed, even of Elessar, King of the West, and Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, who both had given permission for the elves to settle and renew these forests—neither had actually visited in the more than five dozen years since the elven sanctuary of Dundaur(1) had been established. When counsel was needed, a beacon fire was lit on Cair Andros, a messenger was sent to a simple marker along the forest's river edge, and always an elf would come to meet him there. Within days of that message, the settlement's leader would appear as requested in the court at Edoras, Emin Arnen or Minas Tirith.

All that was known among the realms of men was that the settlement had been built, or perhaps more descriptively, had grown just above a gentle spring in the firred crags that dotted the forest between Osgiliath and Henneth Annûn. Nestled on some subtle point of wooded rock across the Southward Road from the Ephel Dúath mountains, its perch provided a strategic advantage over those who might approach from the valley road or along the River Anduin. From the taller trees, the elves had impressive views out over that river's plains to the West, and of the mountains curving away behind to the south and north.

In early morning, the Shadow Mountains to the east cast sleepy namesakes down across the vale, until the Sun's steady march pushed the dark back over the craggy peaks. By evening, that same bright star settled far across the plains and distant hills like a beacon, 'til only faltering rays beckoned longing hearts to follow before night reigned again.

It was in the top of one tall tree, gazing into that bedding Sun, that two tall elves stood this evening as they did each dusk: an archer prince with his heart aching to obey the Westward call, and a fletcher prince wishing for the morning light to turn faces away to the east again.

"Come, my love; 'tis time for evenmeal," said Dunthon, as he gently rubbed the arm whose hand held his. "Galion has another new recipe he wishes us to try."

Legolas wrestled his thoughts from the sea beyond his sight, and the river sounds within his hearing. Focusing on his nearby mate and matters, he turned his thoughts to the scents of supper that wafted up into the trees. "As winter begins to whisper in the wind, I am happy now especially that he chose to come and cook for us here."

Dunthon buttoned a leather tunic over his woven shirt, and held up a dark vest into which Legolas slipped. "He served your father for longer than our lifetimes, and he may finally now butle for himself in friendship rather than fealty. While never caring to be served, I am happy to indulge his skills when he chooses to share them."

Legolas smiled, testing the menu upon the breeze, and playfully chased Dunthon off the edge of the tall platform. Having long learned that the denser foliage of these Ithilien trees was quick to snag and scratch them, the pair leapt carefully down the maze of branches from their ladderless flet to the forest floor before renewing the race.

As they approached a small clearing set further back from the cliff's edge, they could hear the quiet chime of elven voices, most chatting in Sindarin—the common speech among the three elvish realms represented. Entering together, Legolas saw, as expected, how the cooking fire burned smokelessly against the hollowed boulder, as the former royal servant stirred its rich aroma into the air instead.

At one plank table sat Elocen and Eluvenel, twin sister and brother, still dressed in the grey-suggesting-silver cloth of Lorien. Though they had come to the Dundaur more than two dozen years before, they had maintained their Galadhrim dress and reserved demeanor, and were still, a quarter century later, considered a bit boorish by the elf-lively Silvans.

At the next table, Suriel, the weaver last-come from Imladris, fitted a winter jacket on Gwedhwest the spearman, as the healer Auramdir looked on. Other members of the community were scattered around the clearing—seated at one of the other tables, or lingering on the thresholds of one of the groundhomes nestled among the dense growth. Most of the elves lived above the ground, but near enough this common space to quickly reach it and the large tree that dominated it. For there at the circle's eastmost edge and opposite the cliff to the west was a large oak that gave the settlement its proper name among those who knew of it at all: Halsion.(2)

As the royal pair passed the tree to approach the dinner gathering, Dunthon, as always, rested his hand against its growing trunk. He had suggested and then himself carried the acorn from Haldhoron,(3) his flet hometree in Eryn Lasgalen, and planted it here with a bit of Lorien soil. As he worked alongside the others to clear Ithilien of dark forms, introduce healthier blooms and nurture native plants, he had paid special care to this sapling as both a link to his northern home and a light for this southern one.

Rounding the living tower, they joined a small group of elves gathered around the end of a table, farthest from the fire. Spread before them on the table were a number of packs and satchels, variously empty of and filled with a variety of leaf- and skins-wrapped packages and dried goods.

"Hail, captain," called Legolas, to the elf standing in the center of the small and rapt assembly. The standing elf bowed, and those sitting around the table nodded to the couple as they continued working on their tasks. Picking up a satchel of dried leaves, Legolas inquired as if he knew not the answer, "Have we become so settled here that we set up market in Ithilien?"

"We prepare for your harvest journey to Gondor's tower, my lord," smiled Duvenech. Only a century older than Legolas, the tall and broad elf was an accomplished tracker and warrior, and had been the first to volunteer to accompany the princes to Dundaur. Well-known from his service in Legolas' guard, he had been named Legolas' captain here in Ithilien. "We soon depart for Minas Tirith, and we wish to be sure we have all the requested herbs for Gondor's kitchens and healing houses."

For nearly half a century, the princes and a small guard had made yearly trips to the court of Elessar, restored king of Gondor and beyond. With harvests in and winter approaching, the elves celebrated the year's plenty and shared their skills with human craftsmen driven indoors by the arrival of autumn's chill.

It was a happy time for the leaders of the Ring War in the south to gather as one—even as their number had continued to shrink. Boromir and Denethor of Gondor, and Theoden of Rohan had been lost in the War itself. Frodo and Bilbo Baggins, and the Three Keepers had sailed West only two years after the destruction of the Ring. The remaining halflings, Samwise Gamgee, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrine Took had made quite the names and lives for themselves in the distant Shire, and had traveled only occasionally back over the Misty Mountains since the fall of Mordor.

Though the Fellowship had never gathered complete since its disbanding outside Isengard so many autumns before, these annual partial gatherings had become all the reunion these makers of history could make. Eomer King of Rohan and Faramir of Ithilien joined Gimli of Aglarond and Legolas of Dundaur in attending Aragorn become Elessar in the White City as the white frost and snows arrived in their collected realms. There elf, dwarf and man recounted past times, celebrated todays and planned for future ones. It was a ritual almost all looked forward to with great anticipation.

Not among that number, Dunthon looked up from his reflection on this imminent journey as Ristolf jogged into the circle and directly to Legolas and Duvenech, nodding to each.

"_Brannon nîn_,(4) Captain. Sirs, Haethros has failed to make the watch-change. As Leithian and Ethuil came to relieve us, he did not appear. We three searched about, but could find no sign or sound of him. They have remained to look and watch, but I have come for additional eyes and ears with which to seek him."

Tension enveloped this quiet gathering, as even those beyond elven earshot felt the alarm of those nearer than they. It had been decades since the last unexplained troubles in the woods. In the first years, the forest had hidden a small number of fugitive orcs and men, and the land had not been so familiar to the immigrant elves. But the remnants of Sauron's forces had long been found, slain or returned to their homelands; and the traveled elves had well learned their new home.

Despite this long-built comfort and familiarity, however, none needed mention how in recent weeks their freshly planted trees and plants had been destroyed. Saplings had been uprooted; smaller succulents removed altogether; and ragged paths of broken branches and trampled earth had led in muddied circles or ended in streams or rocky lanes.

But more disturbing than the destruction of the plants—and this was quite disturbing in itself—was the fact that none among them had sensed or scouted any glimpse of the culprit. Some had occasionally felt some brush of older dread, as in the brief moment of doubt when an adult suddenly remembers a childhood fear, and worries for a fleeting moment whether it were wise or foolish to outgrow and ignore the threat under the bed, beyond the campfire's protective light or around the next corner. "Shadows of Shadows," Meren had named the sensation—his description bringing little comfort to anyone.

And in the report of Haethros' unusual absence, these dreads and doubts settled on the small community more quickly than any nightfall.

"What was Haethros' path today?" asked Legolas, long accustomed to his role as leader among them, and anxious beyond his rank for the elf and the evergreens too.

Duvenech answered briskly, feeling an even greater weight of direct responsibility for his warriors. "He was to survey south today, my lord. We have extended our scouting ranges, in response to the damage to the new plantings and in preparation for our departure to Gondor."

"Then south we search," ordered the prince. And turning, "Galion, Halsion is yours until our return."

The collected if uncomfortable calm that arrived with Ristolf gave way to swift, but well-ordered commotion as nearly three dozen elves gathered their ever-handy hunting gear, broke into pairs and fanned south from the settlement into the familiar wilderness. Some pairs took immediately to the trees, while others hurried silently along invisible paths.

With no more than a confident glance, Legolas squeezed Dunthon's hand and led Aduial off to the east, while Duvenech nodded to Lendlir as they took point toward the forest's west edge. Dunthon turned to Ristolf, his personal royal guard, and they leapt lightly into the treetops heading along the center of the forest. The remaining pairs spread out in parallel to these lead groups, so that soon a solid line of scouts and trackers was moving down the narrow forest. Without speaking aloud, the search parties moved quickly and cautiously, stretching all their sharp senses ahead of and around them for some sign of their missing kinsman or the mischief he may have found.

Trouble had returned to Dundaur and, gracious hosts as elves could be, this guest was not welcome.

* * *

Hours later, near the mountains' boundary, Legolas paused a moment in his search, wishing that the overnight clouds had showered rain and not just broken moonshade upon the forest. For though the water would have washed sweet pine into the air, making scent tracking nearly impossible, he would much prefer to be lost in that perfume than to lack the clear pathways of prey's footprints in freshly wet soil. He smiled, knowing that similar thoughts passed through minds across the forest now as many sharp eyes scanned dry earth for absent clues. 

Continuing through the night and a good distance from the settlement, he and his search partner had found no sign of any elf, nor of any other being. Just as the late morning sun began to emerge over the eastern peaks, and as he leapt from one scraggly fir to another, a surge of tension swept over him like a gust of wind. He looked to Aduial who also had halted several trees over, and Aduial stared back, confirming that both had the sensed the same change, along the same connections to others of their community. Still without speaking, they both turned south, toward the other pairs and the ridgeline than ran through the forest, dividing it unevenly into high vista ridge and low river slopes.

From his kindred further ahead, Legolas now sensed sudden sadness and a growing, cold anger. These shared feelings drew him faster to their source. Remaining in the trees, he and Aduial wound down the steep slope to the forest's lower level where the wordless call of others' minds led them along the cliffbase, a number of miles further from the settlement.

As the distress and resolve became almost palpable, Legolas and Aduial left the trees and stepped cautiously into a small opening in the forest cover just below the rockface. At one edge, two elves knelt among the jumbled rocks that littered the area, and Legolas sensed six pair of vigilant eyes alert in the trees around, standing close watch over the scene before him.

Grief washed over the prince as tangibly as did the dappled morning sunlight passing through clouds and trees to calico the scene. Úrsir took note of him first, looking up with tearful eyes, and Clair glanced up briefly from her silent farewell to acknowledge his arrival before dropping her gaze again. His eyes followed to find emerging from under a draped blanket, one frayed braid of dark brown hair and a graceful, green-clad arm unnaturally bent. And all was too still and quiet.

The metalsmith from Imladris left her husband attending the motionless form, and approached Legolas. She spoke softly in respect, sorrow and stealth. "My lord, Dunthon and Ristolf found him first; Úrsir and I came second. It is clear that he fell… or was pushed… from the ledges above."

Legolas looked up the sheer slope, and Aduial stepped protectively closer with arrow notched.

Clair continued, "Dunthon took Ristolf and four others above to search. Others join them as they arrive."

Legolas cast his mind about them for some signs of progress or success. "The forest has grown silent as they hunt."

As if to spite him, a broken bleat echoed from far above, followed by a horrendous roar and hurried cries in various elvish tongues. They all looked up, primed arrowheads following, as trees snapped, bows sang and something large thrashed beyond sight but well within earshot. Scanning the vision-filling cliffs above them, the elves worked to isolate on which of the various outcroppings and levels the obvious struggle was unfolding.

Narrowing their search, Ristolf's clear voice cried above the din, "_Saingund!"_(5)with an urgency and panic that chilled this prince's heart. At the same time, someone in the trees nearby shouted, "_O thaen!,"_(6) whirling elven heads and taut-drawn bows to a point directly overhead.

All looked up to see a great, bellowing and five-limbed shape pour over a ledge far above, and grow ever larger in its descent. A shower of rocks and dirt surrounded it, as Aduial grabbed Clair and Legolas and pulled them back toward the cover of the trees.

Legolas saw Úrsir throw himself across his fallen comrade, to protect him from the rock shower. Returning his eyes to the strange-showering skies, he calculated that the dark shape would crash to the ground just beside the prone and the protecting elves. They would be soiled and scratched perhaps, but safe.

It was in these slowed seconds that his eyes were caught by a second, smaller and more familiar form falling beside the first. Their eyes met: Two still; two in motion. Two light; two dark. Four fearful. United in one thought: _melda._(7)

Shaking off his guard's grip, Legolas screamed, "Dunthon!" and jumped forward. A sickening trumpet blast blew, the earth shook, a cloud of air and dust erupted between them, and the steady archer was knocked from his feet.

* * *

**Text Notes**

1 Sindarin: _dun_ "west" lenited _taur _"wood"

2 Sindarin: variation on _hall_ "exalted, high" _ion _"son of"

3 Sindarin: _hall_ "exalted, high" lenited _doron _"oak"

4 Sindarin: _brannon_ "lord," _nîn_ "my"

5 Sindarin: _sain _"new" lenited _cund_ "prince"

6 Sindarin: _o _"from", stop mutated _taen_ "height"

7 Quenya: "beloved"


	2. Chapter 2

**HALSION DAYS**

By Mirwalker

**Chapter 2**

Galion had long served the Kings of the Wood-elves, serving even before they were Wood-elves. He had attended the first at Amon Lanc in the south of the Greenwoods when first they settled that forest, well before the site was abandoned to and turned by the Dark One, becoming Dol Guldur. He had served Oropher into the Last Alliance, and then his son Thranduil beyond it to the next turn of ages. His last duty to that ruler had been to oversee the festivities of the crown prince's marriage to another royal servant—a union that had brought special joy and satisfaction to the palace staff, as one of their own rank had finally been recognized as an equal by the king and court.

Professionally humble, Galion smiled to himself as he worked alone in the settlement. Even he, who had attended and arranged countless others—even he had to admit that it had been a particularly beautiful ceremony. In the company of the whole kingdom, representatives from lordships across Middle-earth and accompanied by as many of his fellow Ringfellows as could attend, Crown Prince Legolas married royal fletcher Iavasulad, formalizing nearly three thousand years of friendship, love and companionship. Beginning before sunrise on the first day of the new year, the beloved stars had shone their blessings on the couple and handed them over through the sunrise, to a new day and life together for as long as they all shone.

So pleased had the King under the Canopy been, in fact, amidst the many new beginning of this Fourth Age, that he granted Galion's request to accompany the two princes to their new settlement in Ithilien, and there to live and serve a third generation of Greenwood royalty as he chose. Released to his own interests—and he knew, to keep a watchful eye on the princes—after a long lifetime of faithful service, he had found great happiness in his freedom and new surroundings, and he took renewed pride in exploring and providing new fare in the new forest.

One such meal he had continued to keep warm through the night and into this morning while he also prepared cloths, herbs and other supplies for possible use by the settlement's healer. For this night had not been among the happy in Dundaur, as one of his kin was missing and all the forest on edge while the community searched. To that unusual tension, weariness and sadness were added as he heard the strange bellowing approach well before he sensed, heard or saw the search parties returning.

That the first to return was Auramdir, the healer, did not bode well though she smiled in gratitude at how well he had prepared for this possibility. "_Einior_,"(1) she asked respectfully as the distant bleating grew closer, "I can manage the athelas and petal water; would you please start a _large _pot of strong baby's broth?"

The oddity of the last request did not register, as his thoughts had caught on the second item. _Perfumes… used for…burials. _His heart sank as fear rose at for whose it might be.

"Some haste, Galion, please," she reminded gently. "We can help only those we can."

He nodded quietly, added a few logs to the fire, and went to his storehut for his richest blend of dried plants and meats—a recipe he'd not used in an age. It was only as he selected small earthware jars and leather pouches from their places that the full surprise of her last request struck him. _Baby?!_

Another round of bleats at a nearer distance broke his thoughts with partial answers. He gathered the last satchels, and leapt from the low platform back to the clearing floor. As he placed his armful on the table nearest the fire, across the space a solemn procession emerged from the treeline. All faces were long. All eyes were wet. Most were filthy. And two carried a sapling litter draped in cloaks of Lasgalen green, Lorien grey and deep Imladris blue.

Galion needed not mark the faces of those returning to know whom they bore, as the memory of the fallen kinsman hung heavily in the minds and hearts of the entire party. _A whisper now too far distant_, he thought.(2) This youth had been among the many elves born in the first decades of the Third Age, one of many living celebrations of life's survival against the plague of Sauron. Of the final generation of the first race of Middle-earth, begot in the echoes of the Last Alliance, he had survived the continued struggle against darkness through the last age and the final, fiery battle in the trees that freed the Greenswood and its people. And now he had fallen, never to claim the final ship-board view of the world to which he had been born and for which he had fought. What had robbed him of that fate?

As they gently laid the litter on one of the tables Galion had dressed for healing, the crown prince entered, all but carrying a dazed and dirty Dunthon whose left arm was bound against his chest only slightly tighter than Legolas held to him. The fletcher did not seem to register the cheerless scene around him as his head hung lazily against his worried archer mate, who also seemed to spare no thought for any but him. The stoic Duvenech and guilty-faced Ristolf brought up the rear, carrying the princes' bows and quivers.

With this final four, Galion noted that still not all the community had returned. Two, of course, would remain on patrol as at least four sharp eyes ever watched over the woods. But four others also remained away. And still there was the unfamiliar cry and crashing some paces to the south.

Ethuil and Aduial took up guard positions at the head and foot of the covered form, while the rest of the company quietly removed and put away their travel gear and garb. Úrsir and Clair, the husband and wife from Imladris, gravely accepted towels and steaming bowls from the healer, and approached the draped table with somber grace. As they walked past and began their work, the glen was filled with the sweet and subtle scents of Greenwoods home.

Auramdir followed the princes into her groundhome, and Ristolf, after hesitating on whether to follow, instead took up his sentry at the door.

The Ithilien captain stepped beside Galion, but did not pause to share his reverie of the sad scene. Ever to task, he instructed simply, "She will need hot water for his wounds, and then we will take your broth to our captive."

Galion both nodded in understanding and looked at him in question.

"I will explain when we walk. For now, please see to the princes."

Another nod, and Galion moved to the fire where Suriel helped him draw two kettles of hot water from the cauldron. He quietly spoke instructions to her, showing her the ingredients he had fetched. Trusting the broth to her care, he glanced again at the Rivendell couple's soft-singing work, and headed to the healer's hut.

He nodded to the prince's guard as he entered, noted how near to tears he was. It was clear that they were not just for the fallen archer. If not for Haethros alone, then what else made this grown elf cry?

Beyond the fabric flaps, in the space usually open to the nurturing sights, sounds and smells of the forest, Dunthon lay almost still on the central bed, his eyes closed in rare elven evidence of his injuries. He had been quickly but carefully stripped and then modestly covered with a fine sheet from the waist down. And most every inch of his pale skin was smeared gray, brown and black of earth, or marred with various red, green and blue bruises and abrasions.

At the far end of the cot, Legolas sat cross-legged, with Dunthon's head cradled gently in his lap. As Auramdir worked, the archer sang quietly to his husband and tenderly washed the dirt and blood from his face—as surely as he would the pain if he were able. He did not look up as Galion entered, but rather kept his gaze, tune and caress focused on the drowsing face below his.

Auramdir turned from her care, and spoke quickly as she helped pour the kettles into open bowls. "Galion, please help us wash him, warm water only. I do not wish the athelas to revive him until I am certain his shoulder and arm have been re-set, and we have more of the blood and Mordor filth off of him."

"Mordor?!" exclaimed the eldest elf, more loudly than he had intended.

A sharp look from her amplified the regret he felt on speaking, and ordered him wait for an explanation at some later time. She spoke a little louder now, to include Legolas. "Please continue with his legs. Both your movements will distract him while I determine the damage to his arm."

Concern overcoming his curiosity, Galion took his cloths and a bowl, carefully wiped the mix of sweat, blood, dirt and even small rocks from the battered legs beneath the cloth. He noted small, dark spots on the crown prince's jacket where his concern and love splashed physically from agonied eyes. He watched as the healer's learned hands removed the cold, damp cloth and ran lithely along the discolored left arm and swollen shoulder, seeking pain to soothe. He felt Dunthon jerk slightly as her fingers rounded the joint, while his own fingers felt the faint scar on Dunthon's thigh, the mark of the service that had gained him the royal title, _Ecthelgedon_.(3)

Auramdir's face grew taut and pale with sympathy and anxiety at the prince's response. "My lord," she whispered regretfully to Legolas, "The shoulder did not remain in place during our return to Halsion. I must re-set it if it is to heal."

Legolas still did not look up, only pausing in his cleaning and nodding slightly.

"Hold him," she instructed with a firmness she expected them to apply themselves. "The sleeping draught I gave him and the shock may not be enough to keep him from the pain."

Following the silent instructions of her eyes, Galion bent diagonally across Dunthon's legs and waist, using the width of his own body to apply pressure broadly, rather than focusing the force through his hands alone. Legolas, having gently lifted the groggy head to the cushioned surface, stood at Dunthon's right side and similarly stretched himself across Dunthon's chest. Pinning the able right arm to the table, with his own left hand he braced himself on the bed's edge. With his right hand he turned his beloved's face away from the healer and kissed the ashen forehead. He whispered loudly and with reassurance, "Strength, my love, this quick pain will bring relief," and pressed his cheek against Dunthon's.

Their gentle restraints in place, Auramdir stood at Dunthon's left side, holding as low on his upper arm as she dared. Inflicting a moment of pain for a pure purpose as only healing hands and hearts can, she counted and acted. "_Min... Tâd... Neled._" Galion and Legolas pressed down as she pulled on his bound arm, twisted slightly and then pushed firmly inward with the flat of her hand against the front of his shoulder. Dark eyes flew open as his entire body arched away from the third agony of the day; parched mouth let fly a deep and piercing scream—as unmelodic a sound as any had ever heard the fletcher make.

In an instant it was over, leaving wide eyes, an echoing scream and a guilty archer to soothe and reassure a suffering love.

Her worst work well done, Auramdir turned to the older elf. "My thanks, Galion. As I steep some athelas, would you please bring some cold water? I will keep the chill cloth on a while longer, and then warm the shoulder to ease the swelling."

The elder nodded, and gathered soiled cloths and clothing to take for washing. As he stepped to the doorflaps, he gazed back on the royal couple, his heart as ragged for them as the tattered cloth he held. Legolas had not looked up once from where his entire world lay before him on the cot; his forest princedom no longer existed for him at this time.

Emerging into that nonetheless realm, Galion saw Eluvenel jog southward into the forest, his shoulders strung with coils of _hithlain_, the elven rope of Lorien. Nearer, he saw Duvenech speaking sternly to Ristolf, a tension between them broken only when the captain's strong hand returned some confidence through the warden's shoulder.

That exchange complete, the captain turned and approached Galion. "Your face could yet be longer, friend; and so I take it that the prince improves?" Without waiting for an answer from Galion's drawn but thankful face, he continued. "When your broth is ready, you and I shall take it to your next care."

* * *

Slightly more than a slow-cooking, dirge-filled and bleat-broken hour later, the Captain of Dundaur and the former butler to the King of the Woodland Realm stepped into the southing forest carrying a still warm cauldron of rich broth. Few more words had been said in the settlement in that time, though eyes fluttered to every bustle of the healer's tent flap as she went about her work. Ears turned to each sound from that direction as if Dunthon himself might emerge. And hearts hung heavy as he did not, and as Haethros lay in their midst in example of an end made worse by its rarity among this immortal folk.

Despite the heavy and awkward load they shared, Galion noted how Duvenech led swiftly, though notably slowed by grief or dread or fatigue or all. They were well clear of the campfire grove when he said simply, "_Annabon_," as if the word and the image it conjured resolved all questions of the day's sad events. "Prince Dunthon and Ristolf found a family of small mûmakil atop the ledge where Haethros fell. The old cow was freshly dead from the birthing, and the newborn calf still weak. The bull, half-blind from age, already angered by its mate's death and protective as any father, returned and trapped them against the cliff face. As the others came to their defense, the prince drew the wounded beast to the precipice. And despite Ristolf's best efforts and its arrow-flecked hide, it managed, in its final act, to take the elder prince over with it. Were he not able to land atop it first, his injuries would have been much greater. Still, with the long height, the bony carcass and the stony ground, no feather's fall did he have."

Galion walked some steps in silence before giving voice to his rushing thoughts. "That explains our injuries and loss indeed, but what of the beasts themselves? Could it have been these Haradrim mounts that have ravaged our plantings? And regardless, how have they lived here so long without our knowledge of them? They are large, just as hungry and were grown under Shadow. It has been sixty turns of seasons…"

"All true, and questions good, Galion. As the prince is preoccupied, I had hoped we might consider this puzzle. Yet, I have no experience with these creatures. Might you shed some light from your greater collection of years."

"I recall no such sights in the battles of old. Stories, yes, over the years; but Legolas' father let little of song or light from the outside into the Woods through the last age."

Duvenech was shocked at first by the former servant's thinly veiled connection of the king and the mirking of the Greenwood. But under Galion's knowing gaze and with the honest possibility that stubborn isolation indeed may have contributed to the silencing of much of the forest under cobweb and cower, the captain held his tongue on that point. Instead, "They are perhaps newer beasts of the Shadow?"

"These creatures would have been in service to, but not made by the Dark Lord, I think. As you say, they bore men and nothing more to battle at Pelennor."

"And were abandoned by them at war's end, rather than taken home? Yet most men live not five dozens of years. Could their beasts?"

"Who knows what calendar this creature keeps, and what may have been added by foul spells."

"Though surely we would have sensed some, more clear echo of that dark touch. If not over the years or recent weeks, then certainly in their presence today. And yet there was none."

"Left by Mordor and mortal both, they may simply again be free creatures of Iluvatar, and thus in harmony with these lands such that we heard not the discord of old in them." Had not the Ringbearer halfling been freed from the One's control, and in fact been welcomed aboard a Grey Ship? Did not the very land they now walked continue to blossom with the Shadow literally lifted from it? Why should the long-noses be different?

"Perhaps," said the Captain, by nature and occupation suspicious of possible threats. "I am simply relieved they were not so large as the stories come to us from the siege of Minas Tirith."

"Were they not?" asked Galion, surprised and perhaps relieved that his imagined threat might not be so monstrous.

"Still large, yes—nearly three elves tall, the bull. But no moving mountains with cities atop as the elders in Elessar's court tell. The cow had old calloused scars around her midsection; and so I wonder whether these were not breeds meant as beasts of burden rather than of battle."

"Yet still hardy enough to eke a living on plains, hills and forests without catching our eye," chuckled Galion, amused anew at the tenacity of survival. "The growing calf must have driven the cow to the nourishment of our summer crops and new plantings, and the father followed. We were planting a feast, not a forest, without knowing it." He smiled openly at that thought, and knew that Dunthon too would take the calf as just such a sign that even the most unlikely of life prospers in the renewed Ithilien. "So, captain, where is this no small wonder of creation?"

"Prince Legolas ordered it spared, brought along and..." Stepping into an opening in the thick trees, he presented it "…given into your care until it will be taken as a gift to the court at Gondor."

Before he could react to this unexpected responsibility, Galion entered the clearing himself and saw that there, already more than two halflings high though no more than a day old, wobbled a wrinkled mûmakling. Having calmed and quieted, whether from familiarity or fatigue, the calf now reared and roared with the arrival of the two new elves.

Eluvenel and the three other guards on hand moved quickly to calm the frightened infant. Two checked the hold of the elven rope leg shackle; one noting its strain on the large tree at one end, the second paying careful heed to the padded anklet end that held the newborn leg. The other pair directed their efforts on the beast's other end; Eluvenel singing soothing words, and Erethir placing calming hands upon its shoulder.

The new arrivals settled into their work as the others settled their ward. While Galion made its acquaintance, Duvenech unslung a large satchel from over his shoulder and busied himself on the ground. Unrolling a large cured leather hide, he tied lengths of _hithlain _to its three corners and with Lindlir's help, hoisted the odd quilt between two nearby trees. Happy with the placement, Duvenech lowered the roughly triangular device to ground level, and had the others quietly help him pour some of the cauldron's contents into it. As Galion watched from the corner of his eye, the large pouch filled quickly and they heaved it up again above shoulder height.

Dipping his hand in the remaining brew, the captain wet the pointed base of the pouch, and quietly beckoned Galion to lead the beast toward it. He splashed some broth on the youngster as its head turned, and Galion, recognizing the game from tending two-legged youths in his own time, stepped ahead, dipped his own hand and reached back to the groaning mouth. With a whiff of the soup through the trunk, and a taste of the juice on the tongue, the mûmakling groped greedily with both for more. Teasing it directly to the hanging pouch, Galion and the gathered caretakers were rewarded swiftly as the not so little one chomped keenly on the pouch, and wrapped its long nose lovingly around the sack, slurping loudly.

"Well done, captain," lauded the smiling butler. "But, how do you keep the contents from spilling?"

"A taut flap inside holds the liquid in until the babe's suckling pulls the broth past it. Suriel suggested and sewed it like a large waterskin."

"And they say that dwarves are the masters of clever contrivances..." smiled Galion.

"It cares little for the how of the meal, only the now," observed the Lorien ropemaster, confident that his lines would hold both bottle and baby in place, each to its proper tree.

"'It' is a 'he,'" corrected Galion, proud of his people for their ingenious care and of his newest charge and its brave appetite.

"_He_ is quiet for the first moments in a while. He feeds with the greed of a dragon!"

"Greedy indeed, Eluvenel," smiled the elder. "And so we shall call him, according to his character. _Melch_ he is, and 'Melch' he shall be."(4)

"And busy shall you be," laughed Duvenech, "for we shall need a number more broth batches before we deliver him to the nurseries of the White City."

_Indeed, _half-smiled Galion, as the literal weight of his responsibility became clear to him. He began a mental inventory of his herb stores, hoping he had enough for this large appetite.

* * *

Back in the settlement, Legolas stepped from the healer's tent, his eyes now dry but grief still plain on his face. "Ristolf!" he barked almost immediately, his eyes searching.

Showing guilt for his part, Ristolf nonetheless presented himself immediately. "My lord, I…."

Legolas clasped the stammering archer on the arm and spoke with the authority born of rank, character and, now, relief. "Dunthon speaks of how you leapt after him, how you nearly fell yourself in an attempt to catch him. Swift as he can be, I am grateful for your efforts on his behalf. Your concern probably held him from more reckless steps."

His leader's relief washed into the warrior, his redemption tempered quickly by the still serious status of his friend and ward. "I am honored to serve, sir. How…. How is he?"

"He is in great pain, but Auramdir says that he will recover. The flight, he says, was quite enjoyable, and that he regrets only the landing." He smiled slightly, relieved himself that Dunthon was capable of such jest. "Perhaps you two can work on that skill when he has healed?"

"Of course, my lord." A shared smiled. "Might I see him?"

Legolas glanced back the healer's way, and admitted, "That you must ask of Auramdir." He squeezed Ristolf's arm again, and let him on his way, his own eyes falling on the burial preparations still underway at the clearing's edge. Drawing up himself and his resolve, the elf-lord of Dundaur took his place among the attendants and paid his reverent respects with royal hands and hymns.

* * *

The laments for Haethros in elven voices were drowned more widely and through the night by the bellows of the young mûmak—frightened, confused, hungry, lonely and angry as loudly as an orphan of any of Iluvatar's creations would be. To avoid its cries leading anyone directly to the settlement, it had been kept some distance away under the gaze of the night watch. Echoing off the same cliff faces that had claimed its father and Haethros, the calf's cries brought shudders to the men of Ithilien, still garrisoned at Henneth Annûn and Cair Androsfor whom the uneventful half-century of the restored King of the West had not dispelled old tales of elven sorcery. The cries also served to both mirror and mask the grief felt through Halsion for its loss, as the small community said its farewells to Haethros and prepared his body for the halls of Mandos.**

* * *

Text Notes**

1 Sindarin: "elder," adjective used here as a proper title

2 Haethros: _hae_ "far, remote" lenited _rhoss_ "whisper"

3 Sindarin: "spearcatcher," a title bestowed by King Thranduil; see my _Travel as the Sun_.

4 Sindarin: _melch_ "greedy"


	3. Chapter 3

**HALSION DAYS**

By Mirwalker

**Chapter Three**

Just before high sun the next day, watchman Tarlir arrived at Halsion, escorting nine dwarves, tired from and covered in the dust of long travel. Though these dwarves were expected, the community still grew tense on their approach. Visitors to the settlement were all but unknown; the presence of any outsiders was an uninvited change. The leader of this delegation of the children of Aulë, however had become quite familiar to all the elves of Dundaur—tolerated and even welcomed in deference to the silvan prince. How relations between the two races had changed since the last age!

For their part, behind their broadaxes and beards, eight of the nine dwarves looked just as unhappy as the watchman. Despite decades of improved relations between their folk, trees and trees-elves were not their favorite company. Even the leading dwarf, in his finely appointed mail and cloaks, showed more distress than usual for the much-anticipated reunion.

Quickly aware of the change in the community's mood, Legolas stepped out of a groundhome with a typically unreadable, yet clearly saddened elven face. "Gimli!," he shouted clasping strong arms with the dwarf lord. "We did not expect you until nightfall."

"We made haste across the plains and river through the morning, as we heard reports of and then heard for ourselves the horrid sounds coming from the woods." Eyeing their tall elf escort, the lead dwarf added, "Your wardens, as usual, are long in sight and short in words, and would not say what has happened."

The woodsman spoke in his defense and in hopes of his dismissal from this unsavory duty. "My lord, I assured them that all was secure, but saved the explanation for you."

"Thank you, Tarlir," nodded Legolas, dismissing the ready watchman. The warden bowed to him and the dwarves, and vanished happily back into the forest.

Before the elf prince could explain, the dwarf lord reminded him that, "Moody elves make for nervous dwarves, my friend, even in a friendly setting such as this. What has happened?"

Legolas recovered his manners and reassured the edgy, bearded group, "Be at ease, all; Tarlir spoke true in that all is now safe. We have suffered an attack of sorts, the details of which we can save for tonight's shared meal. You have arrived as Dundaur mourns the death of one of our community, and pays quiet heed to the swift recovery of another."

Gimli now could speak various elvish tongues, and could read this elven face as easily. "Dunthon?! Can I see him?"

Legolas returned his hand to Gimli's shoulder in thanks for his concern and in assurance to it. "He rests, but would benefit from your visit." Turning to the assembly, he bid them, "As your lord and I take counsel, I welcome you to take rest after your hard march, and take respite in your canopy, spread as always for your arrival."

The group grumbled appreciably, and waddled off in the direction he had gestured. Most of the party had visited before, and knew well the ample quantity, if roughhewn presentation of the food, water and bedding that would be provided.

As they headed away, Legolas beckoned to one of the elves, from Imladris by his dress, and bid him bring a plate, bowl and towel for their guest. Turning back to his friend, he led him to the groundhut where he had been on their arrival, lifted the fabric flap and waved the low lord inside.

Passing through, Gimli noted that the other clothwalls of the hut had been rolled up and away, allowing the gentle sounds and breezes of the forest morning to enter. There on pillowed cot in a sunny corner of the room, Dunthon lay sleeping in his ever-simple leggings and a billowed shirt, from which only his right arm showed.

Legolas anticipated the alarm, saying, "His left arm is injured, and is bound to his side under the shirt." Bending gently over the sleeping form, he stroked the face and whispered softly in Silvan, before repeating himself in the Common speech, "Dunthon, Gimli has arrived early with his party. Will you see him?"

The brown eyes fluttered open, confused at first, but fixing then relaxing on the sight of the blue eyes looking back. He smiled in recognition and affirmation, and stiffly turned himself toward the door where his visitor must be. Legolas helped him sit up, and settled in behind him.

Dunthon smiled openly on catching sight of Gimli, and stretched out his good hand to clasp that offered by the beloved dwarf who joined them now at the bed. "Gimli!" he beamed, his whole being brightening on the reunion. "You have come already? I have slept longer than I thought…" He looked to Legolas in question at what hours or days his injury had cost him.

Legolas glanced at Gimli, offering him the question.

Gimli patted the hand in his, assuring, "We are early, hearing of your attack…."

"_Mûmakil_, Gimli, after all these years!" exclaimed Dunthon, sitting straighter and shaking Gimli by the leg. The burst of energy passed quickly, as the consequences of the encounter were recalled and felt. He fell back against Legolas, his eyes and voice dropping as he catalogued, "One dead, one killed and one captive, I am told."

Gimli gaped at his Fellow, who nodded confirmation. The same face spoke of losses among the two-footed camp as well—the death mentioned earlier, and the damage lying beside him.

The dwarf bowed his head in respect, knowing that all such ends and injuries to life sat especially heavy on these folk who were otherwise strangers to death and illness. Pursing his lips, he delivered his own woeful tidings. "It is then a time of wider loss to our circles."

It was now Legolas who gaped, wondering what further tragedy had befallen his friends and family. Dunthon did not react, showing little expression other than his tired comfort at being held by his husband.

Seeing his Ringfellow's expression, Gimli raised one hand reassuringly, as his other fumbled in his pockets for his pipe. "The news is not so dire or of death, but rather of departure. 'Ere we departed from Edoras on our path here, word from the Shire reached the court of Eomer King down the western side of the Misty Mountains. Good Master Gamgee sailed from the Havens several weeks ago, leaving Hobbiton and beyond to his brood and brethren."

"Then Rosie has died, for he would not leave her," half-asked the Dundaur prince, his eyes and face long with longer memories and deeper love for the little folk.

Gimli nodded, and lit his pipe.

Dunthon stirred, "The last of the Ringbearers…"

They sat a few moments in silence, as Gimli took comfort from his pipe. It reminded Legolas also of the halflings, so fond were they of it. Dunthon associated the smell and haze more with his stone-cutting companion, and smiled at that familiar presence. Shifting in place and to happier subjects, he asked, "How many have come with you this season?"

"He has ever traveled in parties of nine since the Fellowship," interjected the archer, glad for the turn in the conversation.

"It is a traveling number that served well…," reminded the axeman.

"And it is a reduction from their adventuring bands of thirteen in the days of Smaug," laughed Dunthon. He winced for the effort, and shifted his mirth from voice to sly face. "Did _she _accompany you for this year's gathering?"

It was Gimli who now winced at the common elf's uncommon candor, and who then grinned in his own wily way. "A forward question from the one-armed fletcher…"

Legolas laughed at the familiar play, pleased that the day's dark news had not taken hold. "If you challenge one who is not whole well and refuse him the courtesy of an answer, then I, with all good limbs, shall second his question. Has she come?"

Gimli grinned between them, and asked instead, "You saw my party, my keen-eyed friend, could you not tell with your sharp vision and long memory whether you recognized her among them?"

Dunthon rolled his eyes up to see how Legolas might answer this counter-question.

The elf-lord smiled, and invoked the intimacy of their bond to admit his limits in this rare matter. "As you have confided on your view of elves, so must I then confess how your folk seem to me to be of a single face behind beard and belts. I could no more tell them man from woman, as one from another. If I thought your folk could move so fast, I might wonder whether you brought only one kin beside yourself who simply darts about swiftly and so seems more in number."

The dwarf laughed in glee at this description and admission from the haughty elves. "Nine of us there are indeed," he confirmed, "and two among them of our fairer sex. And yet," he fixed his gaze upon them, "I daresay even our women are hardier than many of your long folk."

The challenge hung among them for a moment, before the dwarf focused it further. "And to disprove me, you'll first have to find the she-dwarves among us." His eye twinkled at the puzzle he'd placed upon his friends.

The challenge had been accepted by both elves upon its utterance, so Legolas moved to fishing for clues through polite conversation. "Only slightly more common than entwives, I should think are your women folks' forays abroad. We often asked of Nís since first we met her years ago; why then this season does she venture forth with you?"

"We are to take a look at the stonework finally completed in Osgiliath and in the White City for the King. A number of my folk have come to see how the work finishes, and how the stone work weathers. Such public projects are still so rare for our folk, and so are worthy of the uncommon sojourn of many of us, including the strong lady Nís."

Gimli chuckled behind his blush, and glanced down to see what Dunthon's take might be. Seeing the fletcher nestled there, he noted, "An elf sleeping with his eyes closed; now _that_, my friend, is a rare sight."

The two smiled and continued to talk softly, sharing tales of the past year across the sleeping form.

* * *

The afternoon passed in quieter than usual reintroductions and trade. The evening's welcome dinner too was tempered this season, and all in attendance knew it. All were polite, as always; and the stiffness in that courtesy was more a respectful, mutual distance than age-old divide.

Having rested solidly since his return to the settlement, and having amazing elven powers of recuperation, Dunthon joined the head table despite his wounds. Gimli noted, however, that he picked at his food, dining even more bird-like than the elven norm. Knowing well his role of prince and leader, the former fletcher did not lean on Legolas for support however weak he might have felt.

Instead, he and Legolas talked softly between them, though fully loud enough for Gimli's hairy ears, pondering which of the bearded dinner guests were the fabled she-dwarves. Appearance, manner, speech and appetite provided no clear distinction among them. Ever attentive for some sign, toasts were made to another year of peace and prosperity for both communities, Halsion and Aglarond, and to the happy occasion of their coming together again as had become the Fourth Age tradition.

As the sharing of stories honoring the ringfellow Sam and the archer Haethros continued, Dunthon finally reached his recovering strength's limits. With a quick word and kiss to Legolas, and a warm nod and smile to his dwarven guests, he took his quiet leave of the feast.

As the memorials continued, Gimli observed that he made not in the direction of the healer's hut or his farther flet. Instead, he turned from those destinations once he had stepped beyond the fires' ready glows, and slipped into a storehut at the edge of the clearing. Emerging, and with a quick glance back at the party, he headed out toward the cliff edge, away from the settlement.

His attention no longer split to Dunthon beside him, Legolas turned his full power of perception on discovering which dwarven robes might more rightly be skirts. Curious and concerned in his own right for the mysterious departure he just had seen, Gimli made swift excuses to step away—citing the number of draughts of ale and wine he'd graciously accepted. He too headed aside on leaving the firelit circle, and followed the direction that his friend's love had gone.

Unable to match the elf's sight or hearing in the dark, Gimli trusted to follow his last heading along the cliff edge, hoping to come across him at whatever his destination.

Well beyond his own hearing and sight of the settlement, but likely still within Dunthon's, the vague path before Gimli opened suddenly into an unlikely clearing just at the cliff's edge. The day's clouds had departed in the afternoon, and so the space was softly lit by a partial moon hanging across the forest and far plains. No stranger to darkness, his dwarf eyes quickly saw that two lines of small trees stood clearly apart from the shaggy evergreens common to this part of the forest. One row ran alongside the forest's edge, a neat thicket hem to the old growth. At the far side of the row, Gimli recognized the late-season wilt of a towering pipe-weed plant and the tall majesty of two fast-growing mallorn trees. The first was unexpected in that he had never known an elf to smoke it, as was the wont of many a dwarf, man and hobbit. The latter caught his breath as he recalled the land, adventures and Lady so closely associated with this magical tree of Lorien.

Between this row and the cliff's edge, a subtle motion drew Gimli's eyes, and there he saw Dunthon slowly kneel beside the second, set-apart grove. Here grew three more good-sized trees in a slight crescent: a stately ash, another drooping wild pipe-weed plant and a sturdy third familiar to him, but whose name he did not know. Beside the ash, as if continuing the half-circle, the injured prince gently dug a shallow furrow in the dark soil with his one good hand. From a small box beside him, he pinched out something small, placed it in the bare soil and covered it over again. He whispered softly in the silvan strain of elvish, too softly for Gimli to make out more detail than the dialect; whether singing or simply songly, the dwarf also could not tell.

After a brief moment, the prince turned, seemed unsurprised to find himself being watched and nodded to his audience. He moved stiffly if gracefully to the first row of trees, and repeated the ritual, this time extending this line with an acorn and slightly different words.

His tasks apparently complete, Dunthon gripped his bound arm and settled on the ground, gazing absently out at the second, shorter and cliffward row of trees.

Taking this pause as an invitation, if at least not a dismissal, Gimli approached and settled beside him. Without waiting for clarification on his welcome, Gimli asked in Khuzdul, which Dunthon alone among these elves had mastered, "A late hour for the healer's patient to work at either burial or planting, my friend."

Dunthon smiled weakly, "Though you speak in the tongue taught your kind by Aulë, you still show a remarkably elven talent for both telling and asking in a single statement."

Gimli nodded in thanks for the compliment that, before the Ring War, would have been a murderous insult.

"I answer yes to all, for what honest difference is there in purpose when putting something in the earth? The buried seed and planted body both can sprout new growth," answered Dunthon. "And so one in the same, as our people toast and storytell, I mark the news of the late in my own woodsman way."

"A new ward of the forest for each companion who has left us?" surmised Gimli. A solemn nod from Dunthon confirmed his understanding of this obviously elven perspective. "Are those departed so motley a collection as is this grove? I am no master of greenlore, but I note leaves of the Shire, the Golden Wood, the Greenswood and some other here."

The silvan elf identified each with a glance and attribution. "Old Toby for the little folk; great mallorns for the high, of Lorien. Mighty oaks for Greenwoods' sons, and an ash for the Grey become White."(1)

"And the last of the trees? It seems familiar but I do not know its name."

"It is a lebethron, beloved by the woodsmiths of Gondor."

"It for Boromir, the first of the Fellowship to leave us," the dwarf deduced. Glancing at the freshly disturbed soil, he continued, "And perhaps another pipewood seed for Sam tonight, and an oak for your fallen archer too?"

"Indeed. One line for Ringfellows; the other for their broader company."

"They are well remembered then, good Dunthon," admired Gimli. "This, a fitting elven memorial to departed friends and adventures past."

"It is a calendar," corrected Dunthon resolutely. _Looking not back, but ahead_. "I have never understood why men and dwarves cage their dead in cold stone boxes. What is it you fear will make away, and presume you can prevent? We elves live closer to the earth, and if we will not sail from it, we prefer to join and continue with it." _Looking not back, but ahead_.

Gimli made to ask more, long accustomed to questioning directly this rare elf who would answer directly. But he was cut off sharply by that elf's sudden struggle to his feet. "We should all to rest, master dwarf; the road is long before us at sunrise, and friends are waiting."

His long experience with elves sensing more than was shared aloud, Gimli nonetheless followed the prince's lead and headed back toward the settlement. Whatever deeper thoughts and meanings occupied his friend this night, he was correct about the morning's journey, heavy in heart this year as well long in leagues.

**

* * *

Text Notes**

1 Gandalf's staff was made of ash.


	4. Chapter 4

**HALSION DAYS**

by Mirwalker

**Chapter Four**

At sunrise, the long and short party was already in motion to the southeast along the treeline. The dwarves and their caravan of goods preferred the road, and the light-fitted elves remained among the trees, preferring that path to open country.

Crossing the Edeniant(1) at Osgiliath—the symbolic and stone work of men and dwarves, they paused two days for the visiting stonesmiths to inspect the nearly completed rebuilding of the city of stars. Joined there by Prince Faramir and Lady Eowyn coming north from Emyn Arnen, the enlarged party continued across the historic Pelennor Fields to the White City. They passed the rebuilt city gate in the late afternoon, as chill winds welcomed them and winter too.

Either party alone, elf or dwarf, would draw stares in the cities of men; together, all the more. Even after decades of their coming, and even as expected as they were, the city brimmed with excitement at the rare sight of the procession of long-lived folk of star and stone. And some among them had been among those who stood against Sauron generations before.

Adding to the interest this visit, and perhaps adding some rightful fear as well, was the newest member of the winter company. For there, at the back of the line, looming large as the otherwise silent party approached, trod an eight-foot mûmak. It wavered between curiosity and fear as it marched, both frightened and excited by the various peoples and places, sights, smells and sounds it encountered at every step. Only the constant and reassuring presence of three elven handlers kept it fed and occupied, focusing the experience as play rather than panic.

Under the curious and cautious eye of the city's inhabitants, the visitors wound their way up and into the City level by level, finally stopping and breaking into separate parties on the sixth tier, just below the Citadel. Each community headed to its now-traditional guest room quarters: Prince Faramir returning to his former rooms of the stewards; Gimli and guests to rooms nestled deep in the city's stone foundations; and the Dundaur elves to garden-side suites that looked back toward the inland forests of north and eastern Gondor.

The welcome feast of that evening was a relatively small affair by standards of the court of the King of the West. For this was the personal reunion for the lords of the Ring War victors, a time to reconnect in an intimate setting before the late harvest celebrations began across the City and realm over the next several days. The King's private chambers were no less festive for the small attendance; and, as always, the dining, drinking and laughing continued into the early morning.

* * *

The next day, as the final feasting before long months of winter restraint officially began, the formal exchange of gifts was made among the kingdoms in the great hall of Minas Tirith, in the shadow of its past and future rulers.

Prince Faramir and Lady Eowyn, as second hosts of this annual gathering, initiated the gift-giving by presenting all with hot drink and warm breads made from bounty of Gondor's garden restored. From under the hills opposite the White City from Emyn Arnen, Lord Gimli of the Glittering Caves, gifted each representative with another place setting in the gilded dining set his folk had created for each royal and ruling house.

Beside Lothíriel, his queen, sat Eomer Eadig, King of the Riddermark, physically withered now at 91 though no less imposing for his years. He offered each land his traditional Rohan foal or pony for their riding stables and husbandry projects. Councilors of the Shire brought good wishes from the smaller Ringfellows, along with smoke weed, rare produce and travel barrels of ale. Even representatives of the Haradrim, Southrons, and Easterling men were welcomed to this state occasion, and each offered humble tokens of their local crafts and harvests, now freely practiced and traded after years of embargo and enmity under allegiance to the Shadow.

And last before the King of the West would present his own gifts to faithful subjects, ancient Prince Legolas of Dundaur led the congregation out onto the steps of the citadel and presented young Prince Eldarion of Gondor the mûmakling gift. Melch took an immediate liking to his new master, and particularly his pocketful of sweets—a suggestion of Galion's to make sure the introductions went well. Even as a man of thirty some years, the human prince was delighted by the rare pet, while his staff dreaded the awesome caretaking responsibility that came with it. They were assured somewhat, by the promise by the elves to help them learn its care.

The young prince, gently slapping away the affectionate grope of a fingered nose, stepped close to the elven princes and asked, "My lords, thank you indeed for this unique gift. Grateful as I am for this new friend, I must inquire, Is there to be no elf-child to whom you might present this treasure?"

Legolas visibly blushed, and gripped the hand on Dunthon's good arm. Dunthon's eyes flared at the young man before he looked away, leaving Legolas to speak what all others knew. "No children for us, my young lord."

Eldarion's enthusiasm competed with his humility, and the struggle quickly got the better of his common sense, as he pushed the point. "But to whom then will pass your lands and ways, my lord?"

The gathered crowd fell even more silent, as older ears and eyes seemed trapped in their discomfort at the awkward inquiry.

Ever the elf, Legolas showed no further reaction than to reassure, "To you, young Tolcontar. By your very name and rank, you and your people shall be our heirs. Even now, with each visit, we have begun that giving."

From beside Elessar's frown, the good mother Undomiel stepped forward and led her son to show her the new citadel inhabitant. "Come, _ion,_ introduce me to your long-nosed and sweet-toothed friend…"

As the noble host swiftly joined the change of focus, Aragorn stepped to his archer friend's side, as Arwen looked beyond her gushing child to check with the other royal mate. Dunthon, half-feigning a chill in the late autumn winds, pulled his tunic together at the neck, and spun on his heels to leave crowd and questions to the elements. Greenleaf, Elfstone and Evenstar all noticed, and silent apologies for the entire scene floated among them.

* * *

Through the coming days, other gifts would also be exchanged beyond the ceremony and court of the King's Hall. For their part, the Dundaur elves lightened their travel loads by gifting the many herbs and spices they had prepared and carried. They asked for nothing in return, but accepted such trifles as their human hosts would present them. The elven crafters also gave of their countless time and experience, checking the human handiwork of the past year, and passing along new skills and secrets of their crafts.

Several mornings later, on the last day of the autumn festival, the city was well awake, though the late autumn sun had just joined it. The night watch was only now turning over its vigil to the day; and preparations in shops, stalls and other workshops of the city was underway. The smell of warm night fires blended with the odors of baking and boiling, and the sounds of creatures and citizens awake and afoot began to echo through the city streets.

Above the waking scene, Dunthon stood at a window looking out and down on the sun dappled city. Never comfortable in royal halls, and this least among them, his face carried none of the promise or warmth the dawn suggested before him.

A gentle voice behind him spoke in Quenya, shutting out even those few courtiers familiar with the common Sindarin parlance among the elves and West King's court. "_Toron,_(2) you are more scarce and seem even more solemn than usual this year. Is it only the arm that pains you?"

"Ancient habits are less easily broken than bones, milady. I believe you know that I have never shared my husband's affections for the world of men."

"For my world and that of my husband?" the voice asked with a hint of amusement.

Dunthon turned, horrified that he may have spoken against the Queen and his hosts. "I meant no offense, majesty. Your husband and his people here have been nothing less than gracious; I have no claim or charge against any in Gondor."

With a reassuring smile and touch, she joined him at the window. Still not answering, she gazed down into the yard below, where several Dundaur elves continued to introduce the court stablers to the young annabon. Too young to remember the last appearance of the long-nosed beasts at the gates of their city, the human handlers seemed more surprised than fearful of the odd appearance of the new royal pet.

"Our generations are not so quick to forget as are theirs…" noted Arwen, looking out across the plains and down into the city and scene below.

There, as the elves stepped back leaving the Gondorian handlers with mûmak lines in hand, a banner of the White Tree snapped loudly in the brisk coming-winter wind, thundering through the enclosed terrace. New to this place, these people and the world itself, the startled mûmak broke from its human handlers, and trundled more than charged wildly about the yard, bleating. The elves, torn between amusement at the scattering men and anxiety over the genuinely frightened toddler, sprang in to take its tethers and soothe its fears.

"Innocence is no substitute for wisdom, milady," Dunthon critiqued coldly. "See that they cannot care for even one creature; how we can trust an entire world to them?" He turned away from the window in disgust, and she followed, smiling.

"I trust my husband as yours does, to continue the ascendance of man, and to prepare them and our son for that responsibility."

"It is not your husband or even son who worry me. But rather, as you say, we elves may take the longer view, and wonder what mixed outcomes the future holds beyond their reigns. The line of men has failed before, with proud kings of Numenor and even power hungry lords of this city."

Ignoring the potential slight, she reminded, "You are right to be wary of the burden we must pass along to them. Yet we can only do what we can for those who come after us."

Dunthon's jaw flexed before he forced a change upon his countenance, taking on an honestly pleased smile. "And I sense this trip that you now have one more coming after you…"

Arwen smiled bashfully, and placed a hand on her stomach. "You know?"

Dunthon beamed at her happily. "Of course. You glow even more than usual, milady; your Song includes a soft new harmony. She will be beautiful; may she also be as wise."

"I cannot be certain how she or any other will fare, be they mine or of my people. And so I can do nothing more than prepare and love them well, and trust that to be enough."

"I must then trust your wisdom, for sure as Eldarion inquired over this large infant," he said, gesturing to the courtyard, "I shall have no children with whom to practice."

The radiant lady laughed aloud, and took him happily by the arm. "There is no practice, my dear Dunthon, with children either. I bear and rear them, and then…"

"And then?" he prompted at her falling silent.

She exhaled deeply, as if convincing herself of the truth in what she was to share. "And again, then, they are what they are with what guidance I and others can give them as they grow and learn." She turned his face to her with a commanding and graceful hand. "The eldest men are as children when measured against us. So if it would help you, think of them so. Have patience, teach well and take joy from their quick wonder at the world."

He nodded acceptingly, and they walked a while in silence, needing no spoken words to secure their understanding. Dunthon allowed the Queen to lead him gradually down through the buildings and out onto the terrace of the Tree, where the stoic, wing-helmed Guards stood ever watchful under its sprawling canopy.

On stepping into the dawn, Arwen felt her silvan cousin instinctively turn their path to face north and east, away from the river and sea to the south. _Toward sunrise and home, _he would surely insist. She smiled at his obvious subtlety, and he knew she understood his practiced, protective habit.

"You needn't keep me from the sea view, Dunthon," she assured. "There is no inevitable ship from which to save me."

He blushed at her discovery, but could not deny it.

She turned them back to the south, so that they faced both brimming sunlight and halting southern winds. "I do understand that these visits also harbor some danger for you, beyond discomfort."

"Not for me, milady, but for him… Any temptation is unnecessary. And as much as his bonds with his friends are helpful, this place also abounds with reminders of shores and surf. I worry here more than in the forests, that his resolve will falter, that he will fly. I regret that each year I come to dread this time and place more." He hoped his tone and expression conveyed the remorse with which he confessed, and that she would be as understanding and as forgiving as she had already been with his more than usual distance this visit.

Without reacting, she bid him sit beside her on a break in the parapet, as the breezes whipped about both their dark locks, and lifted a flock of late-migrating birds past them. Taking his good hand in hers, she smiled knowingly and spoke to him honestly in their open privacy on the promontory. "I had wondered, Dunthon, about your reticence, and had not been alone in that curiosity. Some of Estel's men, in fact, had inquired politely whether you might actually be afraid of water, as stridently as you avoid stream, river, lake and sea, whenever possible."

Dunthon started at this observant, if inaccurate, insight by the men.

Arwen laughed, and reassured him that, "We of course reminded them that our woodland kin are masters of most of the natural world around them, and that they should concern themselves with other things." He did not seem fully settled by her defense, but she knew him well enough to know that he placed little value on what men thought. For that indifference, in fact, he was also infamous.

"I share this not to upset you, brother, but rather to remind you that you are not alone in your concern for Legolas or the larger state of things."

Dunthon look confused, as he did not understand what or whom else might share his vigilance and worry. Arwen reminded, "I too await an unavoidable fate for my husband."

She did not need to remind him that the undesirable end was not simply for the King, but for herself as well.

"And while I think that end is still years away, I cannot help but wonder at which of these reunions he will make his farewells. At whether this year's gathering might be the occasion when he will take his final leave of his companions, invoke his bloodline inheritance and choose his moment to pass on.

"He—we both do so enjoy these times together with our friends. He so looks forward to them that I do all the more, knowing he will remain at least until the next fall." Her smile dropped, and her eyes followed as she made her confession. "And yet, I also find myself relieved to find you all have departed without that good-bye, and I am confident that he will stay at least until you come again. And thus some part of me wishes you to remain away and thus delay that departure. Cruel, is it not, to wish the absence of my beloved's friends?"

"It is simply true, _onóre_"(3) he assured her flatly. "We each have made our choice to remain here, and each must accept the consequences, both sweet and bitter." He glanced across the plains and river to the woodlands he now called home, and smiled for the thought of them. "And I trust the strength of our affections to support us in our struggles. I have no doubt that we each will hold as long as we need…"

Cocking his head in the direction of the terrace they had earlier watched, he led their clasped hands to her stomach. "And if the years of and sinfce the Ring War have shared with me any wisdom, it is that love and life persevere. And so, I will."

* * *

**Text Notes**

(1) Sindarin: _eden_ "new" + _iant _"bridge"

(2) Quenya: "brother," meant here figuratively

(3) Quenya: sister (again figurative, familiar)


	5. Chapter 5

**HALSION DAYS**

by Mirwalker

NOTE: This chapter has been expanded once since originally posted.

**Chapter Five**

Nearly ten years later, the visit to the White City was not for so joyous a reunion as were the late autumn gatherings

Nearly ten years later, the visit to the White City was not for so joyous a reunion as were the late autumn gatherings. This year, instead, the journey had been to bid farewell to two shapers of history, short of stature and long in status. The cousins Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrine Took had died within days of one another, inseparable even in their final adventure from this world.

As the Dundaur party made its way back toward Halsion on their return from the funereal observances, Legolas remained profoundly silent, and Dunthon could feel clearly the heavier toll than grief that settled in him. From the city slopes, Dunthon had seen the tall ships come from Dol Amroth to pay their respects. He had smelled the faint whispers of salt borne upon long winds from the south. And he had sensed the ocean pour into Legolas' wounds of grief and take hold there, stinging deeper with each step further from the shores to their forest home.

And as is these temptations were not enough, it had been raining for eleven days, a fitting reflection of the mood of the remaining Ring War lords. A few, more superstitious children in the City had spoken quietly about the return of shadows, so long had it seemed there was no sunshine. They had been chided by their parents and older siblings, who nonetheless attributed the foul weather as omen of the halfling lords' deaths, so as it to give it some reason.

Not needing sleep on the road home from this all-around unhappy period, the Dundaur party had pushed on through the night, day and into the following night, taking the dreary trail at a leisurely pace. Arriving then more wet than weary, they were met as always by Galion and others just beyond the settlement's clearing, relieving their companions of mounts and riding gear.

Galion started toward the two princes, his face registering in alarm as he noted Legolas dismounting, _He is shivering. _Before he could speak or act, he was caught short by a meaning-filled glance from Dunthon, _Elves do _not _shiver. _Concerned, but dutiful, he nodded, _As you say, my lord_, and saw to it that the princes were free to move on first.

Continuing in silence, Dunthon led Legolas around Halsion and up into their own home tree. Respecting their mutual grief, and not needing spoken words for most of their interactions, Dunthon did his best to tend to and occupy Legolas as they changed from their traveling clothes.

Still in silence, the fletcher forced the archer to eat something of the hot meal Galion had set out for them there. Nonetheless, Legolas made to rest quickly this night, clearly sick of heart and weary of body. Himself drained by travel and care, Dunthon consented and settled beside him, intentionally draping one arm over his husband—both in affection, and as connection through which to continue watching over him.

* * *

At some point in the night, Dunthon's sight came slowly into focus, his eyes and mind searching about for familiarity. He had not roused himself from the elven waking-dreams; he had been pulled. The forest canopy around him and the sky above both were dark, as this night was ruled by stars without moon's challenge. The slight sting on his cheeks told him that the night had grown very cool outside the sleep skin under which he lay. His ears reported no sounds beyond the low gurgle of the nearby spring; his nose, only the now-familiar scent of fir branches, fur bedding and Legolas beside him.

He knew the scene all too well, and should have expected it after the last days' events. Exertion and anxiety were friends to the malady, weakening mind and body against its influence. Its cruelty was absolute, yet ironic: Sleeping dreams unmemorable and yet so absorbing that the victim elf's eyes unnaturally closed, and so seemingly real that the sleeper's muscles tensed and knotted in struggle imagined within them. This still strain raised the victim's temperature, as if in fever, and created salty sweat to tease with taste and smell of surf. Thus building thirst and warmth desiring cool quench, the fit finally drove the waking sufferer to whatever water was near, where he would find its physical presence never enough. With no relief in Middle-earth, the fated longing would only grow until sated by death or delivery to another set of shores.

Lacking the formal teaching of a healer to battle against this inevitable outcome, Dunthon had what no master of tonics and tourniquets did—the ultimate motivation to make the hurt better, and the unique connections through which to do so.

Raising himself on one elbow, he wiped the brow of the sleeper beside him, took a deep breath of the cool night air and placed his open palm on Legolas' bare chest. The connection being no less painful for being practiced, he flinched as his eyes shut while the pain, heat, thirst and frustration flowed across the bridge he had created. Gradually Legolas' face and arms relaxed, and his breathing slowed. His eyes did not flutter open as he returned to calmer sleep, but the tension noticeably bled away—finding home once again this night instead in his devoted fletcher.

Dunthon forced his own eyes open, and pried his hand away—grateful for the relief the breaking brought, and saddened both that he needed to connect at all and more that he could not steal more pain away.

He rolled from the sleepskins, and dragged himself to the water basin purposefully placed on the floor nearby. Too weak to sit up and scoop a draught, he dropped his entire face into it, drinking and cooling at the same time. Whetted and low on air, he pushed himself up and out of the pan, and fell back, dripping and panting, against the tree trunk.

Lying there, he gazed lazily at his love, whose steady breathing and calm expression brought him comfort. Reassured, he closed his eyes and let his mind take stock of his own state. More drained than any time before, he wondered how many more such rescues he would to make. How many more he could make.

These latest halflings made three of the Fellowship to have passed in the past ten years; only two remained—three if the Ithilien Prince now counted among those on whom they waited. And while he wished them no ill, he could not help but wish them speed through the remainder of their happy lives. A thousand thousand days he had seen, and yet his love's pain ate quickly away at his patience.

As reunions and funerals gave the others their opportunities to look back fondly, he felt the increasing urgency of looking forward. Tomorrow he would find the spare moments to slip away to his arbor grove, and plant the pipewood seeds in the closing circle of Ringfellow trees.

Seasons changed. Trees grew. Elves endured. And that calendar slowly counted down their days.

* * *

By late morning, the clouds had finally thinned and the rain tapered off to occasional sprinkles. The swollen Anduin ran swift and loud below them in the Valley, and countless rivulets laced the slopes of Ithilien, connecting each drip from waterlogged leaf to its potential destination in the faraway sea.

Following their own destinies, the Dundaur elves went about their morning routines as they had before and during the nearly fortnight of storms, though this day's clothes were slightly less damp and spirits were slightly higher, to match the change in weather. Erian tuteled Brêgûr in braiding hithlain, while Suriel and several others sorted through warm weather clothing brought out from storage in hopeful anticipation of spring and summer. Duvenech and Elocen chatted amorously near the cookfire, as her twin brother looked on amusedly while cording thatch for someone's roof.

Watching it all, Galion dangled his legs from his storehouse door, counted remaining ingredients, and calculated what he could still prepare until the spring crops were ready for harvest. From this vantage point, Galion's eye was caught by movement opposite him just beyond the muddy clearing—flashes of light-colored hair among the foliage, heading slowly in the direction of the freshwater spring. Adding up the late morning hour, the previous weeks' grief, the ubiquitous rain, and the solitary walker, Galion set down his spice satchels and picked up a half-full water jug. With a quick stir of his simmering kettle of stew, he followed his prince on pretense.

At the spring, the only sound and movement was the steady gurgle of the spring and the constant drip from the surrounding trees. Beside it, holding two large, empty waterskins, the crown prince stood and stared into the small pool. His hair was uncombed, and he wore the inner stitching of his vest on the outside. Galion felt the morning's lightness fall away from him, at confirmation that not everyone fared well with the winds' change.

Announcing himself as he stepped up to and knelt at the spring, Galion took his time emptying out and refilling his clay jug. "Fair morning, _brannon nin_."

Legolas started as if a taut string had been cut between him and the spring, and turned to acknowledge flatly, "Galion."

Rinsing out the jar, again, Thranduil's once chief butler made idle conversation, "I am not sure if you have yet spoken with Duvenech, but the woods were quiet during your travel; no news beyond the rain." He smiled as he looked up at the archer.

Following the lead, Legolas finally squatted beside the spring, and began filling one waterskin. "I have not spoken with the captain, but will do so after returning these to our flet. The skins were empty this morning; we must have forgotten to fill them before departing for the White City."

Galion nodded noncommittally. "I have a kettle of venison stew nearly ready, if you and Prince Dunthon would be interested? The rain seems to be lifting, but a warm bowl may still be good against the parting chill."

"Thank you for the offer; I will pass it along to him. We both would do well with a hearty meal after… After a difficult week."

The grief, gloom and more hung between them as Galion noticed Legolas' waterskin had long since stopped bubbling. Making a show of pulling his own jar from the pool, he wiped down its mouth and plunged it in again. "Ristolf mentioned that the younger princess had fallen ill just before your visit…?"

Noticing his own filling task again, he withdrew and stoppered the full skin, and submerged the second as he shared, "Indeed. She had been bitten or stung by some insect while at play in the citadel, and reacted badly to it. She developed a fever, and her father's ministrations made her to sleep most of our visit."

"In the midst of the wider grief, their Majesties and the Court must have been most worried over her," Galion engaged him obviously, as well as sincerely.

Thinking back to the West King's city, Legolas nodded. "Undomiel fretted greatly, despite all our confidences in the Houses of Healing, and Elessar's care as well. And though he does not let on to care for the human children, Dunthon took several turns sitting with the little one as she rested. It seemed every moment not spent at formal events, he spent at the child's side or chatting with the healers about her condition. Several friends commented how they had never known him to be so interested in how men sickened or healed, but he was very inquisitive of her sleep and state of health." Legolas blushed slightly in newfound affection. "Even after these many years, his quiet compassion continues to surprise and impress me."

Galion had run out of motions to make with his many-times-over filled jug, and so set it beside him on the ground. Glad at the hopeful focus of the discussion, he made no move to interrupt it beyond agreeing honestly, "He is a remarkable elf, indeed, my lord."

Increasingly connected to the present, Legolas felt that the bubbling from his second 'skin had ceased, and so he pulled it from the spring. As he capped and dried it, he confided, "But I do worry about him, Galion."

"Prince Dunthon?" confirmed the elder.

A cloud passed over the fair-headed face, even as pale sunlight began breaking through the gray blanket of the morning sky. "This visit to the White City seemed especially hard on him: the princess' illness, the halflings' passing, the rain. What time he did not spend asking after the princess, he spent alone with your mûmakling or with Gimli. And this morning, he was wont to rise at all, even after we both rested later than is our norm."

Less sure about whom they were now discussing, Galion listened dutifully and sat still as Legolas picked at his waterskin nervously.

"And, I know my own struggle with the sea-longing wears on him also. Do not think I am unaware of my contribution to his worries…" Clearly weary himself, Legolas forced a smile as he glanced at Galion. "Your stew will help much I am certain."

Galion returned the slight smile, appreciative of the compliment. "I hope it might help, but," he took a breath before perhaps overstepping his place, "As much as it or I may assist, might I suggest that you speak with him directly? I can feed and advise, but I cannot nourish him or you, as you can one another."

The simple truth and task sank into the prince like rainwater, and he sat in the saturation until Galion roused him shortly for their return to the settlement.

They returned to Halsion in silence, though Galion was not sure whether it was entirely out of reticence or resolve. He noted Duvenech begin toward them, eager to report in as expected, but Galion motioned him to hold. Trusting if not understanding, he joined Galion in watching as Legolas glanced about and beyond the clearing, before turning confidently toward his husband's openly secret grove.

Setting the full jug in the doorway of his storehut, Galion noted that his small box of pipeweed seeds sat open on a shelf, and that a drinking ladle hung dripping from another of his water jars. He glanced again toward the cliffside, and mourned a thirst there he knew would not be quenched in sight of these or any other trees.

* * *

Legolas approached the memorial glade, and was greeted by an unpleasant and unnatural sound he had heard only among humans, and then only in their healers' home. He hurried into the clearing, eyes scanning its two semi-circle collections of trees, until he saw Dunthon doubled over at the forest's edge. Bracing himself against a tree with one arm and breathing deeply, Dunthon coughed and spit and wiped his mouth with the other, as Legolas jogged over with a worried, "_Thôn_?"_(_1)

Weakly, Dunthon pushed him away, assuring "I am better now, love."

Unconvinced and undeterred, Legolas took him by the waist and offered him one of the waterskins to rinse his mouth. Nodding thanks, Dunthon sipped and spat several large mouthfuls, before drinking deeply from the skin.

Turning to Legolas and offering a smile for his concern, Dunthon capped the 'skin, narrating, "I will save some for the planting." Nodding toward and moving in the direction of the Ringfellow cresent, he explained, "I had come to plant pipeweed for the halfling cousins, and felt suddenly weak. I had not eaten since we left Minas Tirith…"

"And did not eat much while there, as I recall," noted his still-worried mate.

Dunthon gripped Legolas' offered arm to lower himself to the ground at one end of the closing circle of growing markers. "It was hardly the time for feasting, with two friends gone and the princess gravely ill."

"And none would have us join that list for lack of sustenance." His honest exaggeration won him a look of disapproval from the nauseated gardener. "My point is that I worry about you also." He tucked a stray lock of dark hair behind a pointed ear to emphasize his attention.

"These long years and losses are trying for everyone, _lassë_ (2). We all have more grief than endurance to share." He took and gripped the archer's hand, before resuming his tilling. "I remain beside you, as we focus on our remaining folk and friends. Let us relish and not rush those relations."

Puzzled at the suggestion of rushing, he nonetheless seized the opportunity to suggest, "I have no wish to hurry anyone along, but I do recognize the cost to us of our endurance. I wonder whether we might take some comfort in quietly beginning preparations for our journey. I am thinking to begin construction on a grey ship, a practice exercise as none of us has trained under Cirdan." He pitched the idea with a forced levity, as if he were suggesting they try a new recipe for bread.

Dunthon remained focused on the planting before them, and did not look up to question, "What know we of ship-making? As children we threw dry leaves into the Forest River and watched the current take them; as adolescents we poled empty barrels through the shallows to Dale. But that is no basis for shipwrighting."

"I have talked with the Lorien twins about their riverboats," assured "And I have watched carefully the men of Dol Amroth, Linhir and Pelargir when they have come to Osgiliath."

Dunthon pinched his cheek playfully, pointing out, "A quick apprentice you are indeed, and yet you did not learn to shoot or ride merely by watching."

"Then I will go with some of our folk to the harbors themselves, and study with the shipwrights."

Dunthon turned on him fiercely, "You will go nowhere near the river's mouth until we pass through it on our way at some distant point."

"I know that you have instructed our folk not to speak of the river or sea, so that I might not hear of it. And that you ordered us housed at Minas Tirith always facing north, so that I might not catch sight of it. I am surprised that you permit me to drink or bathe for fear that I might be urged on… You might protect me from reminders of the sea, but you cannot, in the end, keep me from it, Dunthon."

Face-to-face as they kneeled together, the taller elf took each statement in easy stride, and neither looked nor moved away. "With each of those instructions, I buy you time to wait out your mortal friends. Be happy with each sunrise witnessed with them, and bother me not over how you are kept here to greet them."

He poured the last of the second waterskin over the freshly sowed seeds, and softened his own face and voice as he did the soil. "We all grieve those we have lost, and we elves especially anticipate the pain of those losses to come, _Quessinald._(3) Let us not wallow in the past or hasten the parting." He looked down at the new plantings and the wider growth around them, "Rather, let us give attention to the life we have."

Not waiting for or permitting a response, he stood, gathered the empty waterskins and observed as if surprised, "I have used up the water you collected. As I rush to the spring with these, I understand Duvenech has a report for you, and Galion a rich stew for us both. If it would bring you comfort, I will join you momentarily and we can sate ourselves on both stories and soup."

Kissing his prince on the forehead, Dunthon sealed the conversation closed, and headed into the forest.

Legolas looked after him for a while, and wondered when that role might change.

* * *

**Text Notes**

(1) Sindarin: "pine tree" (an abbreviation of and nickname for Dunthon)

(2) Quenya: leaf

(3) Quenya: treefeather


	6. Chapter 6

**HALSION DAYS**

by Mirwalker

**Chapter Six**

"Good new year, love."

"_Yando."_(1) Two simple metal cups clinked at the toast, and their two silvan princes drank to another change of seasons past, and another to come.

"Each new year finds fewer of us here to mark the date," stated the blond prince as he and his dark-haired match looked out over the valleys of Ithilien.

"Lesser in number, _glass_,(2) but no less in valor or resolve."

Legolas slipped his hand away from his mate's, and walked to the nearby table to refill his goblet. "You needn't remind me that we are to remain awhile yet, Dunthon," he smiled. "I did not mean otherwise by my observation."

Accepting the explanation, but unrepentant for his own statement, Dunthon shifted the subject. "It is only short years since the halfling pair ended their long travels in Minas Tirith."

"Eleven new years have passed, and now that unlucky number later, Faramir calls us to him."

"He comes to taste clearly his own mortality now, and we are proof against that end—a comfort from the past, and a hope for a boundless future."

"We cannot change his end, and he knows that, Dunthon. But for friendship's sake, we can offer him the small comfort of our company if he wishes it to ease that parting." Legolas stepped behind Dunthon, and slipped his arms around him. "_Meren edinor _as well, my love."(3)

They sipped in silence, the taller of the pair wishing, as always, that the cup would never empty.

* * *

Days later, a small boat moved quietly across the Anduin current as the daylight also flowed away. Twin oarsmen sat behind a third man in the prow, all looking about with watchful eyes. For this was no regular journey they undertook.

"Ay, Tagax?" whispered one oarsman.

"Shut up, Pollex," spat the other.

"We could get twice as much for two," suggested the first.

"We can also get killed twice as fast," furthered the second, slapping Pollex harshly from behind as they rowed. "Oxter's been watching and planning for this a long time."

"And yet, where's he? When it comes to the most dangerous part, he's safely out of harm's way."

"Bickering and whinging won't change any of it," interrupted the third of the party, whirling back on them suddenly. He glared at both for having to intervene yet again. "There is no safe distance from those magicked bows save over the mountains; and Oxter took his risks getting us these Gondor iron-clothes and having the beckon-fire lit on Andros. Now row; the sooner we're across, the sooner we're on our way."

The two glanced at one another grudgingly, and shuffled their oars back into a steady rhythm.

"Hallux?" asked Pollex after a few moments, showing that his thoughts had not moved as far as their small boat. "Do you think we'll get one of the princes?" His eyes glowed again with greed.

Tagax chimed in, "They're elves, you idiot. They're all princes and royalty."

"Fools," growled the lead, this time without turning. "They can't all be princes, else who'd serve who?" He grunted at the unnecessarily obvious statement. "Besides, only messengers come out to the meeting point, and we're going now because the princes have gone to the steward's son's city. Anyway, on the market, an elf is an elf."

"We could tell 'em he's a prince…" smiled Pollex.

The glare shot over Hallux's shoulder reminded both that they needed to do less talking and more pulling, as the eastern shore of the Anduin neared.

Falling silent as that, their goal, approached, they soon glided into the shallows not far from the fabled Field of Cormallen. They came ashore in a small cove, a shallow beach from which stretched a short lawn to the nearby forestline. This spot had long been the appointed spot to which the Dundaur elf would come when the signal fires were lit. Night was falling quickly, and the odd hour for the summons was sure to mean the sentry here would be watching sharp and quick to come. They were counting on it, in fact.

First and most forward, Hallux leapt out and helped guide the boat ashore as the others stored the oars, prepared to tie her in place and gathered their gear. Scanning the trees around them carefully and cautiously, he stepped onto the famous lawn so that he could also be clearly seen.

Behind him, the others crashed about in the boat. Pollex fumbled with piles of cloth and line still in it, while Tagax splashed in the water holding both the hull and his spear. Turning to them yet again Hallux chided, "Settle yourselves, lest you frighten off more than fish and toads from the riverbank today."

They stopped, one tangled and the other dripping, and stared back at him. Each made to make some excuse, glanced at one another, and turned back to him in an attempt to speak first. And their faces froze, eyes locked on a spot behind their irritable leader.

Hallux whirled, by their faces expecting the King of the West himself must have appeared behind him. Where before there had been only tall grass blowing slightly in the light evening breeze, there now stood an elven warrior whose billowing golden hair alone gave evidence of its actually being in this world. As twilight approached, the elf brought a warm glow to the glade, as if sunset stood personified. Not accustomed to the slack-jawed gawking of these three men, the elf turned and glanced behind itself, wondering if perhaps there were something remarkable there.

In that graceful and brief turn at the waist, Hallux saw that this elf was not merely an elf, but a she-elf! Startled and almost physically struck anew by her beauty, Hallux stumbled back several steps, and into an ankle high stone. Without losing his gaze on her, he lost his footing and fell flat on his back before her, losing his helmet as he dropped.

If the elf thought to comment on his awkward submission she did not show it. Instead, she looked them over again and observed simply, "You are not the usual messenger from Cair Andros."

"Many of our regular men have gone with the Prince," winced the fallen man, clutching a twisted knee. The pair behind him continued to stare, uninjured, but stricken nonetheless.

"And yet you spare three to come unscheduled?" the she-elf continued, nodding almost imperceptibly in the direction where Tagax and Pollex stood stiffly.

Hallux stared back blankly, if honestly, able to offer no good reason for this additional turn from the usual. _We hadn't thought of that. _Instead, he glanced down at his swelling knee, which cried for his attention through his surprise, fear and awe.

"You have injured yourself," she stated stepping slightly closer, her eyes a mix of concern, condescension and question.

"In my haste to deliver our summons, I… I fell," he stammered, stating both a proud excuse and the obvious. "My knee… is twisted." He groped for his spilled helmet in order to busy his nervous hands.

The she-elf took another step forward, her face and bow grip unchanging. Hallux started, and four eyes behind him grew large.

Nothing their reactions, she paused. "You need not fear me, strange men of Gondor; I may offer some relief as you deliver your message."

The relief actually offered as the radiant beauty approached and slowly knelt before him, soft hands gently touching his leg, was of a significantly different type than what he was imagining.

She grimaced at the primitive lust that poured from him. "Speak your message then, unless your tongue is also weak."

He licked his lips, for a variety of reasons, saying only what he had memorized, "We have been sent to summon the elf prince."

The she-elf paused in her ministration, and looked up at them all through narrowed eyes that seemed, despite their narrowing, to see all the more. "Does your master not know that ours is abroad? Accompanying your lord, as I hear?"

"Our captain ordered the fires to be lit, and us to bring word. We know not more, lady, and do not ask."

She seemed to relax slightly at this confirmation of the human's contented ignorance, and glanced beyond them, casting both her gaze and her suspicions on the island keep in the distance.

As she did so, he stared openly at her, not expecting to be met by such a literally ageless beauty. She looked not unlike the stories he had heard of her folk: tall, lean, golden haired, eggshell skin, speech like music and a glow that fell upon you like so much grog. Had he known that the elf would be a "she," and that she would be so lovely, he would have begun this venture much sooner.

Not knowing his thoughts exactly, but quite clear from his body and behavior, she closed her eyes against his base bearing. She held her tongue and breath as she massaged the hurting knee attached, not by its own choice, to the revolting man.

Distracted by that disgust, she was caught entirely by surprise when he swung his heavy helmet into the side of her golden head. Even unconscious, she fell to the ground with an inhuman grace.

Hallux looked down at the crumpled vision before him, shocked himself at the unexpected way in which his greed had overcome his groin.

Tagax and Pollex ran up, the latter gasping, "Why'd you do that?" aghast at the sudden action, and quickly becoming taken with the beautiful victim.

"That weren't in the plan," griped Tagax, holding his hollow spearshaft helplessly at his side. "I was supposed to dart him, er, …her."

Hallux looked up at them for the first time, gathering his libido and logic again. "She was suspicious. I saw my chance and took it." He stood up, testing his still sore knee, covering his loss of control with commands. "Get her up quickly, and into the boat. We pick up the plan from here. Move!"

He gathered her dropped bow, and limped behind them to the small boat. The twin henchmen settled her quickly into it, amazed at how light she was, even for…

"A woman!" exclaimed Pollex, suddenly catching on. He took and twisted some of her golden strands in his fingers.

"It's an elf," spat the group's leader, swatting away his paw and thoughts, and settling into the boat beside her. He grabbed one of the heavy blankets they'd brought and threw it over her. He stretched his aching leg out alongside her, also blocking access to both the slavering henchmen. "There'll be no play for us with this beauty; she's still bounty." To himself he thought, nonetheless, how much more she'd be worth as both consort and bearer of beautiful, long-lived children. Still, no need to point out to the brutes the higher price she'd fetch. Oxter would know, but no sense sharing the now higher profit with those not able to figure it out for themselves.

A mixture of excitement, curiosity and anxiety eased them back out in the river, and eventually around the tip of Cair Andros as night fell. Following a narrow beam of lantern light, they rowed silently alongside a larger boat moored there. There, they removed the weighty and eye-catching armor of Gondor, and a fourth man helped them exchange the unconscious elf for a heavier load of stones. As the small boat and other evidence sank into the river, the four men and single elf sailed off into the night.

* * *

A full day's sail and some 200 miles downstream from the scuttling, having passed by the berths at both Osgiliath and southern Pelennor, the unremarkable supply boat slipped quietly into a quay at the far end of Pelargir. The twins had been woken to help tie up the ship, and to transfer the now awake, though well-bound, cargo into the plain storehouse beside the pier.

Oxter and Hallux took turns guarding her with either Tagax or Pollex, not wanting to leave the twins alone with her. The non-guard pair unloaded various sacks and bushels from the boat, masking their more precious cargo, and ready to make profit on these other commodities in the same trip.

Their transfer and camouflage complete, Hallux made sure the elf was securely tied and the twins not into any trouble, before stepping out to join Oxter at a riverside door. Both glanced up and down the nighttime river, watching both for signs of being followed or otherwise noticed, and for indications that their plan's next phase was nigh.

"They should be here by now, Oxter," observed Hallux. He pulled a pipe and smoking weed from his belt pouch, making a point not to offer any to his conspirator.

"Hold your tongue, or I will…" scowled the scurrilous leader, ignoring the selfish smoke and looking about the busy port with suspicious eyes. "We need their sails and the change of vessel to throw off any pursuers. Haven't you learnt nothing of speed and stealth?"

Hallux didn't bother responding to the insult. "Why did we have to bring them in anyway? We've could've just sailed home ourselves. They're more mouths to talk, and more pockets to split the profits."

"They don't know what we're carrying, so it's only passage for four, not five. Elves are ever-rarer these days; she-elves that much more—she'll easily triple the selling price anyway; so even with their costs, we'll still make herds more than we'd thought. Besides, the dark-headed prince fears the water; he leads his folk away from it at every chance."

"So the folk on the island and in Osgiliath say." Hallux pulled a long, obviously thoughtful breath from his pipe. "Let us hope that it is so, that they are slow to note her absence and that our corsair is soon here."

"Speaking of slow, you've left the twins alone with her," reminded Oxter. "They are dumber than even you'd originally thought."

Hallux looked over his shoulder to make sure the referenced ears weren't nearby. "We didn't hire them for their brains. There still are heavy things to lift, and there could still be heads needing thumping. For that, they're more than good."

Oxter grunted in agreement, neither man needing note the obvious advantage that the simple brothers would also not realize what _they _were _not _getting in the deal, namely a fair share. Neither did either, brighter man, admit that he had considered how the two might also be easily disposed of themselves in the end, rather than pay them anything or risk their foolishly saying something.

In a final, solitary thought, both Hallux and Oxter glanced at one another, independently wondering whether the other might not also be worth offing, so as not to split the spoils at all.

* * *

Inside the warehouse, one half of the simple pair poured a dribble from his waterskin onto the wad of cloth in her mouth. He took great effort to hold her gentle face as much as possible, though she was not fighting this indirect drink. "If you weren't so willful, and didn't fight and scream so, we could just let you drink yourself," he needlessly reminded her. "Don't know how we'll feed you," he mused as with a clumsy thumb, he wiped absent stray drops from her tightly pulled lips. "You do eat, don't you?"

His mirror image interrupted his ponder, oblivious to it. "Oi, I've just heard Hallux and Oxter talking… What are you doing?"

Pollex broke his gaze at her and repeated his curiosity to his brother. "Do elves eat?"

Tagax was caught short by the question. "Well, we've heard stories of their wicked feasts and enchanted wines… But I don't rightly remember any stories of them actually chewing anything."

The two stared thoughtlessly at one another for a moment, oblivious to the sharp increase in the elf's disdain for them.

Tagax started as if from sleep, and stepped closer. "Only, I've just heared Oxter and Hallux talking by the water. They plan to stiff us our share of her selling price."

"Why?," his brother blinked back, earning him a slap across the head.

"She's worth more than we thought, you idiot. She must be a princess no matter what Hallux told us in the boat."

"She _is _prettier than even I thought he'd be," Pollex grinned, looking back at her.

"That she is, but no good for us if they cheat us of her!"

Pollex stood, unsheathing his shortsword in a sudden mix of lust and anger. "We mustn't let them!"

"Mustn't let us what?" asked Oxter, coming into lantern-lit circle in the building's center.

Pollex, emboldened by his adrenaline and testosterone, stepped toward him sword leading. "Not let you cheat us… Or, or, or… hurt her," he expanded his crusade with a head nod toward the unreactive elf.

Unplussed, the group leader turned to Hallux who appeared now behind him. "I warned you not to leave them alone with her."

"You hired them," the accused counter-accused, drawing his own shortsword in clear irritation at the twins' anger. He circled away from Oxter, forcing the frantic twins to split their attention between two angry bosses. "We wanted brute strength; you hired some spirit instead."

Deducing the strategy at play, Oxter also began to pace, keeping to the edge of the lantern-light, and trying to stay opposite Hallux as much as possible. Pollex and Tagax spun and shifted, each trying to keep both leaders-become-enemies in their view. Appearing to ignore the twins, he continued speaking about them to his colleague, "They seemed dumb enough when I found them. Any 'spirit' they caught, must've come from the time spent with you on the river. What did you do to them?"

"Don't you try shifting this to me," shouted back Hallux, glancing occasionally at the fidgeting thugs as he continued walking around them. "We had a simple plan to make some easy money, but these two just had to get attached to the merchandise."

"So now you're telling me we've got heavies who are dim-witted _and _soft-hearted?"

"You shouldn't calm them 'weak' in front of them, Oxter; you'll hurt their feelings…" muled Hallux, in dripping sarcasm.

Agitated beyond self-control, Pollex charged his tormentor, shouting, "Stop saying those things about us!"

Though no great swordsman, Hallux had been in enough fights to seize the opportunity, batted aside the awkward thrust, and drove his own blade into the henchman's side. Pollex crumpled to the ground at his feet, dropping his own blade and gasping for breath that entered and exited from mouth and wound.

Shocked by the speed and outcome of the non-volley, Tagax turned his balde toward the captive, threatening what little leverage he had left without his brother's second blade. On putting his sword to the elf, he was instantly stuck through with a half dozen arrows from as many directions. Mirroring the shocked look on his face as he crumpled over, Hallux and Oxter gasped, while the she-elf's visage took on a hopeful look.

With little pause, a tall figure dropped from the rafters and in the same downward motion, sliced through the ropes holding her to the beam. As it settled finally to the floor, offering an arm to the shaky she-elf, the hood fell back, revealing her apparent twin—another golden-haired elf.

Quickly realizing the magnitude of their plight with this angry and accurate arrival, Oxter decided to cut his losses on this entire deal. Dueling with simpleton thugs was one thing, taking on elf magic was quite another. Forgetting to drop his own weapon, he dashed for a side door, only to be descended upon and silently dropped by another cloaked figure. The hunter stood tall above his still form, clearly blocking that exit and suggesting all others were equally futile.

Hallux, useless Pollex at his own feet, saw that he faced his fate alone. Disregarding the brute below him, he put his sword out before him and slowly circled, wondering from which direction an attack would come first, and in which direction it might be safest to escape. The dark room was silent, except for his own and Pollex's haggard breathing, and the silent comfort offered his former prisoner by her kinsman.

As fear froze his wounded victim, it fueled his own desire to live; he clutched at one small chance at turning the situation to his continuance. Sighing in dramatic relief, he reached down and grabbed Pollex's collar, pointing his own sword at the wounded man. "Thank the King, you've come," he shouted at both the rescuer and the rafters. "When I realized whom they held captive here, I challenged these kidnappers and murderers to release her. I had wounded this brute, but knew not how I would stand against the others. Your timing is as miraculous as your magic is said to be."

None but he seemed the least bit relieved at his explanation.

He tried further, asking, "My lords, what would you have me do with this lying, thieving cad? I shall kill him for you if you don't wish to bother yourself. Or shall I leave to him your justice? Or the king's?" He glanced about, more desperate for the lack of response or even acknowledgement.

Turning from the she-elf as she rubbed feeling back into her wrists, the he-elf's face changed from fair to feral. He advanced on the man who held the short, shaking sword before him as though it were some talisman to ward off the vengeful apparition. Two pale blades gleamed in the firelight as the light-haired spirit advanced; and in his stride, all fury followed.

Easily knocking aside the terrified defense, the ageless archer lifted the sweating man from the floor and held him against a piling by his throat. The man desperately clawed at the stronger arm, seeking release; but with the elf's reach clearly longer than his own, he settled quickly into an equally vain attempt to wrench loose the immortal's inevitable death grip.

Through clenched teeth, his captor hissed, "Because she lives, I give you one breath's words to say why you should also."

In that moment Hallux grasped how truly finite his existence was in comparison to, and under the control of, this legend come to life. Not that he could have spoken them, but no words at all formed in his mind. The terror grew in him, shutting off speech, sending tremors through his limbs and finally loosing a steady drop of odorous liquid onto the floor beneath his dangling legs.

Disgusted but distracted, the elf released him to crumple into his own filth.

Turning around as other forms dropped from the rafters, or stepped into the dim light, Legolas saw Dunthon and Duvenech attending their rescuee. The Dundaur captain looked up long enough to report, "These four are the only in the area, my lord. Elocen says that it was only these who have participated in her capture."

The situation well in hand, rage slipped quickly from elf prince's face, and he sighed aloud in apparent relief. Nodding to his captain, he turned toward the dockside door and focused his attention on another imperative.

* * *

Shortly thereafter, Dunthon stormed out into the early morning light, his nose alert in the air for familiar scents and for those less familiar here along the harbor. Sensing his audience to one side, he turned toward him. "Duvenech says you order the Man held and delivered to the King's guard?" he asked in accusation.

Legolas stood on the wharf's edge, facing out into the waking port. The breeze whipped his golden hair about him, the only motion his body visibly betrayed.

Dunthon stopped short, unsurprised but not pleased. His anger redoubled at the sight of his prince, standing more than literally on the brink despite the dawn's safe rescue. Beyond their assault on Dundaur and Elocen herself, these edain had drawn them from Faramir's side and back to the seductive waters. If not intentional, then their ignorance was still cruel.

_Distract him, and punish the other, _he thought. "While he tends to Elocen, we agree that the _badhrui_(4) should face the same end as the others."

"This land is under Elessar's law, and it is for that law to decide his fate," stated Legolas finally.

Dunthon bristled, but spoke calmly. "These men are not of Gondor. They attacked one of our own at the edge of lands under our control. That they fled to his lands, you now argue for his mercy?!" His disbelief was mounting, as was his frustration at not turning Legolas' eye or thought from the river.

"Soon, it all will be man's land. Elocen is saved; the worry is now theirs."

Dunthon's cheeks flared in fury, and he stepped up beside Legolas who still had not turned or otherwise moved. He all but screamed, caring not whether and perhaps even intending to be heard by others. "_These _creatures are to whom you would abandon this world? They who would treat us as chattel? And you wonder why I have so little faith in their race…"

Legolas turned calmly, even forlornly, to face him, saying softly, "No amount, or lack, of faith will change our fate, or theirs." He glanced out again at the slow moving water, and forced himself to turn stiffly back into the building.

Dunthon stared after him briefly, aghast, as bells began a steady, somber peel in the distance, "The Prince is dead." Caring little for this funereal news, Dunthon's shock turned swiftly to rage, and rather than be consumed by it, the wood elf gave himself over to it entirely. Drawing his bow and notching an arrow in one fluid movement, he made to fire into the cursed, seductive river. Just before he let it fly, his ears caught a call upon the air high above, and he tracked on it instantly. The bowstring's powerful twang had barely receded when the cry aloft broke sharply and fell. Silently.

Still enraged, and now guilty at this spiteful and wasteful kill, Dunthon whirled and stalked inside to finish their work and make ready to return to the simple comfort of the forest. Anywhere but gulls and Gondor.

* * *

The Harad sloop _Fortune_ sailed late toward its scheduled stop that early morning, expecting to find four passengers and some small cargo for the voyage south. Instead the ship's master saw a dock and storehouse thick with city guard, themselves abuzz with news of Prince Faramir's death, and the discovery of bodies here amidst signs of struggle.

Heeding the omen of the skewered gull which had dropped to his deck from the clear sky not an hour before, not needing these fares that badly, and not feeling up to the inquiries of Gondorian guards, the master and his ship sailed on. They continued, asking and answering no questions.

* * *

**Text Notes**

(1) Quenya: literally "also," here used as a reciprocal affirmation, "To you too/also."

(2) Sindarin: "joy" (a playful abbreviation of Legolas' name)

(3) Sindarin: joyous/happy anniversary (day)

(4) Sindarin: "judged, condemned" (my construction from _badhor_ "judge")

**Easterling Names**

The Tolkien canon contains few examples of the Easterling language and its names. In fact, the _Encyclopedia of Arda _includes the names of only three Easterlings: Ulfang, the treacherous leader, and his two sons Ulfast and Ulwath, who changed allegiance against Gondor. Whether these are actual Easterling language or are translations into a tongue of the West is unknown. (To me, these names sound of Old English, akin to those Rohan.) Therefore, I elected to draw character names from another language familiar to Tolkien: Latin. This classical language provides some sounds (e.g., the "x") that seem "foreign" in comparison to many of the well-known tongues of Middle Earth, while maintaining an internal consistency that clearly shows the names to be of the same language.

Hallux: the big toe

Oxter: the armpit (Latin "axilla" via Old English)

Pollex: the thumb Tagax: thievish


	7. Chapter 7

**HALSION DAYS**

by Mirwalker

**Chapter 7**

The morning's ceremony would be brief and simple, much like the final meal the elf-court held in the Great Hall this night before. Galion had offered to serve the Lasgalen King one last time, but the retiring regent reminded him that he was palace staff no more, and had long ago earned the opportunity simply to enjoy a royal dinner, especially this one. So, instead the small party had been cared for by the handful of household staff remaining, before Thranduil had dismissed even them to finish their preparations for departure.

"Lord Gimli, Lady Nís, our work in these woods is done, and at sunrise even these tunnels will pass into the province of Erebor. I believe your kin will find everything has been well-prepared for their arrival," assured the king. Looking about the especially cavernous room, he confided, "I must admit that the palace echoes sadness with so many of us gone, but I expect that it will sing again as some of the Lonely Mountain's people make it their home." His hope was as sincere as the clear grief in his voice, and all present knew if a rare offering for him to share both so openly.

The visiting Lord of Aglarond raised his cup again, reminding, "You have well-kept this mountain, your majesty, and my cousins will appreciate the warmth with which it now welcomes them back."

Cups around the table were lifted in accord.

"And, I must admit," continued the slightly more hirsute of the two dwarfs, "while not surprised, of course, I am most impressed at how completely your people have restored the forest."

"It has been a busy eight dozen years, elvellon. And mending the woods was made easier by our passion for it; our silvan life has always been the care of our forest home. Harder to bare was the erasure of all our other presences here—fields and flets, groundhomes and gardens, totems and trails. As was the agreement, only the palace and bridge remain, for your kin's privacy and purposes."

"There is one more holdout beyond the palace," reminded Dunthon, with open pride in his voice. His husband matched his grin, sharing the not so secret glee at being contrary.

"Indeed," begrudged the king, setting down his own glass in perhaps playful displeasure. "Haldhoron would suffer none aloft to dismantle your flet there. I suppose one more night in its branches is expected before you _do_ set free even that favorite oak."

The crown prince laughed aloud and held his goblet aloft again, tapping his husband's and tipping it toward the other guests. Still more accustomed to standing beside, not sitting at this table, Galion smiled politely and sipped his cup, though he knew full well how true the king had spoken.

Gimli chuckled at the same understanding, and noted the elder prince's sudden disquiet at the dismantling reminder. Ever most honest, or at least obvious, with his passions, and summer berry spirits notwithstanding, this last elf tasted no sweetness in the parting.

* * *

There was more haste than pomp at mid-morning. The few dozen remaining elves in Eryn Lasgalen greeted a roughly equal number of arriving dwarves across the bridge from the open mountainside doors. With the exchange of a few simple words of welcome and thanks, the taller leader exchanged places with the shorter and the conveyance was complete.

The regally clad, red-bearded dwarf leader was careful and courteous in his first act as governor of Glanbund(1), "Lord Thranduil, we would continue your recent custom of hospitality, and so would welcome you to remain as our guests if you would prefer to rest up for your long journey."

"You are gracious hosts from the first moment; a good portent indeed, my friend," smiled Thranduil, perhaps more sad than his words suggested. "But our departure is long begun and already underway; it will not stop now, or be better served by another day's delay. As my sons complete their final task in the forest, I would ask only a moment's indulgence atop the mountain, to take my leave of the Greenwoods themselves."

Perhaps secretly pleased the elves would be moving on immediately, the lead dwarf nodded knowingly nonetheless. "As long as you care to. And travel well in the confidence that your presence here will be long be felt and never forgotten."

With that, the entire dwarf contingent bowed to the travelers, and filed excitedly but respectfully into their mountain. The literally cavernous doors did not close behind them, however, despite the protective thoughts of more than a few of the new owners.

Thranduil watched them go in, ancient habits reacting to their unchallenged, and in fact invited, entry. He swallowed, and held his chin higher… to look up to the palace mountain's crest. "My sons, would you accompany me?"

Knowing full well the offered road was in fact that to Mithlond, Legolas stepped forward, "I dare not speak or stay too long, father. I have promises to keep a little longer, other duties unmet," he nodded into the forest and well beyond to the south. "Best I take my leave here and return to those tasks." He did not need to detail the apparent conflict on his face—not so much to accompany his father's party, but to rush them seaward.

"Of course," nodded the father who had used the near-century since this son's return to learn well the passions and tensions that composed the prince. And so, standing at the foot of the woodland bridge, Thranduil once again took his younger son by the shoulders, and looked him over. "Such pride…" he summarized, not needing or able to say more, for the growth in their relationship had been mutual.

"We shall meet again soon enough, adar," assured the prince who would never inherit this realm's crown, "In another green country." He grimaced as he held against the contagious thoughts of that travel.

They embraced genuinely and then hesitated, both wishing at some level to remain connected and to take to the road together. But, each knew himself to be well-practiced in resisting such selfish urges.

Clear on at least one party's temptation, a voice interrupted, "Adar?" Dunthon stepped up, closer than anyone else would dare.

"Ecthelgedon?" asked Thranduil, stepping away from his birth son, and turning away from the remainder of the party.

If there was any ambiguity in the voice, Dunthon could see the clear instruction, the plea in his become-father's departing glance. He turned to his husband and friends, and assured, "I will join you shortly," before turning to his final Greenswood audience.

Gimli looked toward his light-haired guest, sensing his desire to travel but knowing his designated task. "Come, my friend. As I recall, these sylvan chats may take some time. We have a flet to filet." Taking his own love by the hand, the lower lord turned and peered about the thick treeline. "You will have to lead us, Legolas. These thickets taunt me as usual, with their similar leafed woodiness…"

* * *

Dunthon followed Thranduil up the daily-traveled but still indistinguishable trails along the palace mountain, to a small stone at its peak. For a final time, the King's Seat served as such, and Dunthon knelt beside it, sharing the view they both so loved.

Wearily, Thranduil pulled the gold and growth crown from his head, dropped his hands into his lap, and sighed. "I cannot tell you how often I have wished to remove this simple band and the burden of its responsibility. To avoid some impossible decision, or to simply enjoy a beautiful day in this place. To be anywhere but in command." He looked out onto the sunlight sea of green before them, lost in love with it.

"And now that it is mere decoration, I already miss its comfortable weight sorely, for what is a king without a realm?" He chuckled uncomfortably. "What shall become of me, fletcher? As your love once queried me, I ask you now, What is to be my lot in the Undying Lands? Speak, herald; have you some wise comfort to share for my journey?"

Dunthon had never seen his former ruler so small and frail. Where he might once have relished this common quality in his haughty tormentor, on witnessing it now there was no swell of justice in his chest. Rather he was overwhelmed by a pity for the elf before him, and a terror for himself. For if the king was unsure in his destiny, what hope could an arrow-maker hold for his own future? Reacting to the novel situation, he acted in a way he also had never done with this company; he reached out and, without invitation, placed his hand on the finely appointed arm beside him.

Snapped from his self-pity, Thranduil looked down at what would have been an incredible affront during the past many millennia. But by his own admission, he was a king no more, and by his own request, the not-just-anyone was beside him. He looked up to meet the imploring, not insulting eyes focused on him.

"Must we go, father?"

Oropherion could not be sure whether the tears before him offered or sought assurance, release, permission, forgiveness, instruction or simply company in confusion. He placed a refined hand atop the rough, and smiled meekly, "Long-suffering Iavasulad, we finally come to your portend's promise. You have suffered much at my order and ignorance, and for that I am again sorry."

Dunthon did not argue the point, merely nodded in acceptance of it.

The elder elf smiled genuinely to his become-son. "But please know how grateful I am for the obvious joy you have brought to my son, and thus to me. It has made these last years of ready-making so much more bearable to know the firm love that cares and keeps him."

Dunthon blushed and blanched at the reminder of this last gift, and dropped his eyes to match his spirit.

The king raised his chin and spoke as one who knew well the cost of such love. "I am sorry also that your anguish for the House of Oropher continues. I fear I named you too well, Ecthelgedon, for methinks your selfish sacrifice is not yet complete."

The Spearcatcher swallowed and affirmed the simple facts of the future. "I would see our realms restored; he has vowed to see off the last of his Fellows; and as we have in all other things, we shall see each other through."

Thranduil exhaled and summarized his relief, "I take your devotion to him as my assurance that he will sail, and so am at peace with our parting." Turning to the leaf sea before him, he settled into his seat. "Now take my blessings for these final years, and leave me. I wish to spend my closing moments in my kingdom, alone with it."

Swallowing a complex cry that would serve no good purpose in this farewell, the royal subject acknowledged his final instructions with a simple nod and silent withdrawal. He would hold up his dignity, and follow his tears downhill.

"Dunthon," the breeze-carried whisper called softly after him, "I would prefer to greet you _both_ again." _And you know how I despise being disappointed._

* * *

"I much appreciate your help in this unpleasant task, Lady," shouted Legolas, as another plank fluttered down from the tree canopy high above.

"While your presence is sheer generosity, your husband, of course, owes me still for the many times I have saved his life through the years."

"I am honored to be asked," said the strapping dwarfess, easily hefting the lumber, as the other bearded beam-catcher harrumphed mightily. "I can only guess at how difficult this must be for you. And for the tree?"

"Dunthon and I made peace with Haldhoron in the night," explained the elf aloft, with a hint of resigned sorrow in his voice.

Another broad board sailed down, and the he-dwarf fetched and added it to the stack that had been raining down for the past half-hour. He was careful to keep an eye out for the next airborne arrival, and was thankful that the morning's hand-over had not included a feast. Though he would much like to have dined, he was happy not to be weighted down as he dodged flooring, and he looked forward to the even heartier meal this workout would earn.

Nís whispered to him as she handed him another plank, "There are no holes or marks on any of this timber; did they use trust alone to hold their home whole?"

He chuckled at the compliment in her question and reminded, "Think of the great arches and halls we have made without mortar or joint. Their medium differs, not their skill with or love for their work."

She nodded knowingly, surprised anew at this elvellon's insights on the tall folk, whose only apparent connection to her familiar stone were their chiseled features.

As they turned back, a green-clad figure dropped from the canopy and smiled, unsurprised if a little sad, "Haldhoron has grown around the remaining flet pieces, and will not give them up. It seems we all shall keep our mementos."

"And what memento do you take, archer prince?" asked Nís, as she passed around a waterskin.

"My heart and mind are heavy with fond memories of these growth and glades, milady; and so I save my hands for a harder haul." Legolas wrung those hands as he looked back toward the palace and its rooftop meeting.

"The arrowman loves these woods as much as he loves you, elf," agreed Gimli, as much for his own love's understanding. "I do not envy you that parting. You are welcome to remain with us and our kin as long as you wish, if that will…"

"One night more on hundreds of fortnights past may not seem much, I know," interrupted the wood's previous occupant. "But we should set off as soon as he returns, lest his roots grow even deeper. Our road leads and begins elsewhere."

The Lord and Lady of Aglarond, cousins of the new Lord of Glanbund, nodded, knowing the invitation was not unappreciated, merely unwise.

"He is as well-loved as this forest has been," assured one dwarf on behalf of them both. "We look forward to seeing you both in the White City this fall…"

A new voice called out, with all-but-forced mirth, "More rightly, milord, you look forward to visiting the king's quarry, and perhaps a few behind the ears scratches for Melch." The fletcher walked slightly stiffly but directly to the archer, and gracefully clutched his hand.

"That your mûmak gift has proven a gifted stonelayer is nothing to be scoffed at, dart whittler," pointed out the dark-haired dwarf indignantly.

"Besides, they _trade_ ear scratches, my love; so the attraction is mutual," mocked Legolas, giving his own affection's object a light peck on the cheek and a strength-sharing squeeze of the hand.

Though the dark haired elf smiled widely, and though there was no cloud in the sky, both dwarves could sense the clear turn in the day's weather. No amount of camaraderie or light-heartedness would stay or ease the coming storm.

"I appreciate the warning, my friends, and look forward to seeing you both, and my hairy beasts, this autumn in Gondor. For now, my gem, come let us find our way back to the bridge before the sun sinks further," said the she-dwarf, gathering up their few belongings, and waving warmly to the sojourners.

"Aye, my keystone, but you shall have to remember the way back for this timber. I am more sure now than ever that this greenery shift about to spite me." Winking at the two elves, his glee turned to glare, as he grumbled after his more confident guide.

Legolas' own smile slipped away, as he turned to see stormy eyes indeed--focused beyond the diminishing dwarves, and fixed deep in the forest's heart.

* * *

Two days of arduous travel later, the Greenswood curtain closed behind the last two elves ever to wander under its comforting canopy.

Though he did not pause at the crossing, the darker of the pair finally sobbed and his poise crumbled at the parting; and his mate was quick to nudge his steed closer and offer a connection, what substitute he could. Aware that this moment held a special sharpness for his other whole, Legolas gently stepped over behind Dunthon and took the second set of reigns from clenched and trembling hands. The fletcher melted into the familiar embrace, and willed himself not to look back over both sets of shoulders.

Through the bond, they shared the in-the-bones sadness, painfully tinged with happy memories of centuries lived behind them. They also shared the unspoken understanding that neither now headed where he longed to be. Riding southeast, each differently suffered the westward pull.

* * *

**Text Notes**

1. Khuzdul (Dwarvish): Green Mountain. My own construction from radicals G-L-N ("green") + B-N-D ("head," used metaphorically for hill/mountain as in Bundushathur (Cloudyhead), one of the mountains above Moria. As greenery is likely rare to subterranean dwarves, I surmised they might have borrowed their root radicals for related words from the Sindarin, _galen_.


	8. Chapter 8

**HALSION DAYS**

**by Mirwalker**

**Chapter 8**

Fifteen years later, five elves passed from the sparkle of sunlight into the shine of stone, participating in an observance which carried neither natural beauty's joy. On this visit, Aglarond's caverns welcomed the Dundaur delegation with sorrow.

Small by traditional travelling standards, the intimate party reflected the Halsion elves' desire to impose minimally on the grieving dwarves. The princes would have come alone, but since the kidnapping of his beloved Elocen, their Dundaur captain had insisted that no elf stray from the settlement unaccompanied. As the sole remaining first-born presence in Middle Earth outside the Gondorian Queen, their rarity made their company more… precious, to unsavory folk.

Satisfied that they had safely seen their leaders to the stony haven, Ristolf and Aduial settled into the anteroom they would share. Dropping his own satchel there for later attention, Galion unpacked for the princes in the chamber beyond: laying out several stately tunics and robes, checking the contents of a thin box bearing the royal seal of Lasgalen, and setting a thin coil of hithlain obviously but unobtrusively under a corner of the bed. He then left to confer with their hosts about additional jars of water, and details of schedule and protocol for the pending memorial.

In the meanwhile, and with a cool hospitality mirroring that which Dundaur showed his people's forays abroad, an underchief of the Glittering Caves escorted the visiting princes down descending stairs and winding passages. They passed along sandy floors, beside still lakes and running streams, under sweeping domes and between fluted columns—glimmering, glassy and glistening wet, wealthy and coolly welcoming. Only as they finally entered a simple chamber deep in the mountain's bosom, did both elves note the rare silence of the inner mountain—reflecting the grief of their artisans, the deep smithyworks did not ring as they usually did.

Instead, and appropriately, a small figure sat on a simple chair near the room's center, his marbled hair mimicking some of the granite about him. In keeping with his surroundings, he did not move; he simply faced the clear focal feature on the far wall: In a grotto carved in relief from the living stone, two nearly identical, bearded figures stood to either side of a depicted forge, working together on an exquisite metal crown between them. Ruby coals flickered in the torchlight, as crystal, gold, silver and mithril inlays twinkled along stone anvil, tools and proud features. Thin sheets of water flowed down the surface of the figures' similarly gilded robes, adding another illusion of slight movement to the monument. The foundation of the entire scene was a simple, recessed rectangle whose waiting faceplate sat on a workbench nearby, half-covered in carved filigree and runes.

Sensing the company rather than hearing quiet footfalls over trickling spring or popping torches, the watchman turned slowly toward them. "Ah, my friends, you have come at last," welcomed their host, beginning to rise in greeting.

The princes moved quickly to him as the guide silently withdrew. "Do not get up for us, Gimli," insisted Legolas, as he and Dunthon proffered heartfelt handclasps and embraces. "We came as swiftly as possible, and wish we could have carried more comfort with us."

Reddened eyes twinkled at them both through graying growth, "Save a change of fate, I could not ask for more than your company today." He patted both their arms, not needing to give more voice to his gratitude, and then blinked back to the monument before them. "She would be glad to know you are with me in these late hours."

"And flattered by the beautiful scene and stonework," assured Dunthon, nodding to the slightly larger-than-life picture.

"Indeed," admired Legolas, squeezing Gimli's arm before stepping forward to inspect it more closely. He lightly traced a few sharp and soft lines. "Such scale and detail; was this begun before…?"

"Nay, though we—she and I—laid out the design some time ago, it was only just started when…" Dunthon took his hand as his voice trailed off, seeing him still unable to speak the hard truth of her leaving. "My cousins have worked with particular care and celerity. But we have waited on your arrival before laying her to rest."

"We would be nowhere else, of course, Gimli. And we have brought some stores of your favorite meats, sweets and spices for the feast."

"You will stay for the meal, then?" asked the dwarf with a doubt unique to this sad moment.

"Of course," smiled Dunthon, looking to see his husband still entranced by the sculpture's ingenious water feature. "We will stay as long as we are wanted; ay, _glass_?"

"Legolas?" shouted Gimli, also noticing the archer's preoccupation. "Your intrigue is flattering, and we shall pass your compliments to the craftsmen. But for now, come and share some a meal with an old friend in need of good cheer. I know you have traveled hard," he acknowledged, easily computing the brief interval between his messenger's departure and their arrival. "Let us all to sup and rest as needed. With you returned, I will give word that Aglarond will speak and sing our farewells tomorrow evening."

Dunthon helped the aged undermountain chief to stiffly stand, and witnessed a similar struggle as the forest leader pried himself away to join them. He took a deep breath of earthy air, and set himself as the stone surrounding them. _Heavy the coming days, indeed._

* * *

"Mason Gun, I appreciate your accompanying me on this errand while my husband speaks with your chief."

"The pleasure is mine, woody prince," said the armored dwarf walking alongside. "I do not often have reason to venture above, and it is good to remind the Hornburg men that their neighbors remain as ready as near."

Dunthon laughed at his blade-bristled escort, as they stepped from the Caves into the fabled keep of the Horse Lords, "I am sure they will be well warned."

Behind them, an equally wary if less obviously armed Ristolf trailed at a respectful distance.

"And I understand your disinterest in these places," the lead elf whispered. "If not for good friends there, and my love's need to be with them, I would never set foot in the cities of Men."

The dwarf looked at him askance, not expecting such an opinion from a royal elf, much less its voluntary sharing to a common dwarf. He responded carefully, "As we have helped restore their neglected stonework, our Lord chides us to at least admire their newly renown resolve and the persistence."

Dunthon chuckled aloud, "I admire bees for their hard work and sweet products, but I do not desire to pass time in their hives. And bees at least keep to the trees. The humans have restored much of their gardens, and the White Tree is stunning, true; but the city is a city nonetheless, and a stone one at that. Its people forego much of the living world around them, and I do not care to be in a place so barren of trees."

The guide swallowed uncomfortably at the naming of trees, but kept them moving as the thin elf continued.

"Even your folk, whom I have grown to love through your chief, though digging yourselves beyond starlight's touch, even you live with the stone you work. Humans distort the wood and stone and steel entirely to their own convenience; their homes and halls no longer live, they are lived in."

A short stretch from the cavern's mouth, they turned a corner into a small courtyard where a lone, haggard tree leaned awkwardly in a large stonework planter. Dunthon gasped softly as it came into view, expecting some but not this degree of unwell.

"My apologies," quickly offered his guide, as the sapling's alarmed giver stepped quickly in and beside it. "We planted the seed with the Lorien grains as you instructed. We gave it soil, water and sun, and did everything we knew. But as you see, scarce survives in this place that does wear armor or carry a weapon."

Running his fingers across brittle leaf and stem, the Greenwoods son sighed and consoled, "I am saddened; but I do not judge, Gun. It has been my experience that most underestimate the proper care of greening things." He forced his gaze from the upright kindling, to the bare walls of stone and earth around him, home to Dwarf and Man in tandem. Speaking as much to himself as to the child of Aulë, he reminded, "We would do well to accept that some trees cannot be uprooted, transplanted. They can bend and sway, take damage and heal, sleep the deepest winter and dress resplendently come spring. But they will not be moved, no matter the cause or care."

Under thick helm and brow, dwarven eyes blinked furiously, unsure to whom and about what the conversation had turned. "I prefer my stationary stone as well, sir."

Dunthon reconnected with a reassuring smile, "Perhaps our intransigent lots are not so different then, stonemason." Stepping down from the garden shelf, he shifted further, noting that "Helm's Deep seems thinly peopled, speaking of it. I would have expected the delegations from various lands to make it full if somber."

Pleased to be back to known subjects, Gun explained, "Dwarf funerals, like so many of our ways, are not open to topsiders. As I hear, only yourselves were invited beyond our own blood. The courts of Man will be informed soon enough, but are not to be involved in the meanwhile."

Remembering his own courtly status, Dunthon bowed his head and spoke on behalf of his people. "We are honored to have known the fierce lady, and flattered further to lend witness to her life and legacy."

The dwarf smiled for the first time in their meeting. "Your height and hairless face belie your skill in Khuzdul, and your dwarvishness." With a friendly clap of his hands, he turned back toward the familiar glint of his home. "We've unnerved the Helmsmen enough. Best we return to prepare for the festivities."

"Indeed," agreed the dwarf-friend as he followed, glancing back at the expired tree. "Time is short."

* * *

That evening, the Caves buzzed with the gathering of peoples, as Aglarond and its visitors gathered in its larger halls and lined the causeways and passages leading to the funeral chamber. Walking and then standing behind the royal couple as the Dundaur party took their places, Galion could see how the princes supported one another, weakened by more than grief. The elder made sure he never broke contact with the younger, committed to their connection at this difficult time especially.

Old habits still keen, Galion noted that, though Suriel had taken in both princes' robes, the rich cloth still hung loosely on their lean frames. Thankfully, given the thick layering of dwarven finery around them, the excess of fabric on his own leaders did not stand out—only the five fair figures towered above the sea of helmets, hammers, and braids. And marking the status within that group, the archer wore the bright golden circlet of Lasgalen's crown prince, complemented by the rich patina of a copper band on the fletcher's dark head.

Through no small negotiation with Fik, the underchief tasked with attending to the Dundaur delegation, Galion had arranged for the elves to welcome the funereal procession just outside the memorial chamber, rather than accompany it through the Caves. From that more restful vantage, the elves first heard the chanting—a low, bass rumble from deep in the mountain's heart, which gradually grew in volume and vibration as the procession approached. At first like drumming, only as words and then the marching choir could be made out was it clear that the community sang their grief in somber, syllabic tones which could be felt as much as heard, as each bereft beard joined in. Around the elves, the attending _glamhoth_ began tapping their axes and hammers, heads down, on the cavern floors, in rare indication of unwillingness to bellow or battle. And as the sounds and shaking grew, the elves noticed that the glow from the many connecting corridors grew dimmer. For as the bier passed, torches were doused and doors closed, further focusing all light and sound on the remembered, directing all attention to follow the silent lady to her final resting place.

The solemn choir and a richly mailed honor guard preceded the richly draped litter into the monument chamber. Immediately behind strode the widowed Lord of Aglarond, using a slender, bejeweled hammer as a walking stick, his own head held high so as not to take his eye from his beloved as she floated ahead of him. And immediately behind him followed various chiefs and representatives of dwarven realms, including the red-bearded Lord of Glanbund, whom Legolas and Dunthon fell in beside and their retinue followed.

With the memorial hall the only remaining source of light in the Caves, and with low throngs thick beyond its door, the community was entirely consumed in its concentration on her loss. The pounding beat grew faster, the chanting voices louder and the rumble of the caves palpable. The elven guards glanced about nervously, not sure where the frenzy led, and not particularly caring for the enclosed space or company from the start. Only the princes did not flinch when, without apparent count or cue, the pulsing crowd fell instantly still.

Filling the sudden silence, a younger-looking dwarf stepped to where the litter had been placed, faced the gathering and read aloud the sleeper's name, long lineage, full titles and notable accomplishments. Three elves waited patiently for the incomprehensible litany's end, eyes tracking to the occasional nod or scratch amongst their densely packed hosts. A fourth stared intently at the trickle of water down the far wall, the only accompaniment to a life's listing. And the final of the firstborn watched the fourth with eyes appropriately sad for the setting.

Some countless time later, and with a final flourish of voice and drum, the honored dead and then the faceplate were set into the sarcophagus. Gimli stepped forward to stand witness as it was closed, but not sealed, awaiting the day when both intended occupants would lie together again.

As the last peg was tapped gently into place, a single, low note sounded on a horn deep beyond the crowded corridors, and the gathered were called to the memorial feast. And as the community transitioned to the banquet halls, so too did their spirits—sorrow turning to celebration of a vibrant lady and life, who would not soon be forgotten. Tonight, the Glittering Caves would resound with happy memory of her.

* * *

Barely three hours later, with his chamberlain beside him, the Lord of Aglarond stood at the head of small column of less than happy-looking dwarves. Opposite them, two forest wardens stepped up–clear on not letting them pass uninvited, despite the odds. Galion stood between them, equally committed to the protective purpose, but hoping words might address their hosts' interests before weapons were tried.

Gimli stepped slightly forward from his group, and leaned authoritatively upon his walking hammer. "Be at ease, loyal woodsmen. I am concerned at the absence of my friends, and simply wish to speak with the princes."

Galion bowed appropriately, "Your lordship, as I explained to Mason Fik, while our masters do not wish to be disturbed, I assure you they are well enough, and will much appreciate to hear of your concern. In the meanwhile, if I may be of some serv—"

"Master Galion," interrupted the cavern's chief, "Once again I come to your people amidst reports of strange shouts and sounds, this time in my own home. And as I am confident you snuck in no oliphant here, I would know what agony afflicts my guests and thus my garrison." The corridor behind him rustled with the clinks of metal and groans of leather at the ready. "I will speak with Legolas."

"He sleeps, finally," interjected a tired voice from the rear of the antechamber, as Dunthon quietly closed the door through which he had just slid his gaunt frame. He leaned against the portal, his frail features resting on, more than blocking it. Speaking in silvan, he addressed his men, "May I speak with our host in private?"

The two guards bowed dutifully and stepped aside, while the former steward hesitated, unsure if his presence was actually wanted or needed. The commoner prince nodded to him, "Galion, we will need fresh sheets and more water, please."

Gimli's grim glance took them all in, before softening at a brief, pleading look from his friend. He spoke tersely in Khuzdul to his own party, and they grudgingly withdrew under the direction of the chamberlain.

With a final, confirming glance, Galion ushered his kin away, leaving the two leaders alone in the vestibule.

Dunthon gathered his haggard hair to lie limply over one shoulder, and smoothed his wrinkled shirt. "I am sorry for the distraction and the distress, Gimli. He rests now. Come; see for yourself." Poorly hiding his own reliance on the door and wall for balance as they entered, Dunthon waved him into the plush guest room.

Gimli shuffled past him, more anxious than relieved to see the spearcatcher and his condition, and wondering what it foretold of his archer friend. Looking about the more dimly lit bedroom, he saw that a small table lay overturned near the door, the princes' fine robes from the evening's ceremonies lay strewn about the floor, and the thick layers of sheets and quilts poured off the bed's edges like richly colored drifts of snow. On its bare summit lay a thinly clad Legolas, drenched with sweat as if water had been poured over him. Padded by thick rolls of soft fabric, each of the archer's wrists and ankles were firmly tied to a corner of the bed frame with a length of Lorien rope.

"He is bound for his own benefit, at his instruction," explained Dunthon, clutching a corner of the footboard. "I finally consented to giving him a sleeping draught; with grace, he should not wake until morning."

"He is strongly taken with the longing," understood Gimli, placing a mutually reassuring hand on the sleeper's leg. "The distraction was clear when we spoke this afternoon, though he made great efforts to hide it as we spoke of earlier times."

Not needing to answer, Dunthon gestured him to the nearby pair of ornately carved sitting chairs—one decorated with a scene of The Battle of Five Armies at Erebor, the other depicting the Retaking of Moria. Gimli thumbed the hidden mechanism that lowered one seat to a more suitably dwarven height, while Dunthon gathered two goblets and a jar of water, and joined him.

Pouring one cup for Gimli, he sank into his chair as if his clothing had been draped there empty. He gulped down his own drink, refilling it from the jug with which he shared the seat.

"Again, I am sorry, Gimli. The calling is powerful in him this season, more so for having crossed the river, travelled through a rainstorm, and now faced the fountains and falls of this realm. Given your own sorrow, we had hoped to keep the fit and its severity from you all, but by the feast tonight it had become too much. Amidst the songs and toasts, he could hear naught but the constant pouring of ales and the quiet gurgle of your underground springs."

"He left the hall to seek the stream?"

"We followed him to the nearest pool, and found him waist deep, showing no signs of stopping. He was convinced that it would lead him to the sea…" Dunthon swallowed the admission, and glanced mournfully at his sleeping mate. "Hoping we would not be long missed at the banquet, I had him brought here, where he alternately demanded to be released on his way West, and begged us to help him stay. Despite his weakness, we tied him to this place lest he flee. His cries were obviously enough to concern your guards and disturb your celebration. I am sorry…" The dark circles around Dunthon's dark eyes seemed to grow at his mention of each grievance.

"I am honored all the more by your efforts to be here with me at this time. It is I who am sorry that our friendship invites your own sorrow even as you come to share mine."

Dunthon finished another goblet of water, and weakly waved to dismiss Gimli's apology. "Do not worry yourself, friend; unlike the King, you have not _chosen_ the imposition of long life."

"Pardon?"

Dunthon started slightly in his seat, as if from sleep, realizing the unintended bluntness with which he had spoken. He chided himself for allowing the day's drain and age's angst to outpace even his less-than-elven discretion. But he was so weak. _So weary._ He looked back to the bed. "This is as bad as I have ever seen him, Gimli; and there have been many, many difficult days. Each night in truth is an effort, and every year the desperation grows more frequent and ferocious. Of late, it is always there, and will seize any opening to tempt him. He helped defeat one Shadow, only to inherit another."

"And he is fortunate to have you with him, as always."

"Is he? To save him this torment, and despite my own desires, I have begged him to sail. I would and should have long ago cut his bonds and carried him across the seas myself. But I have not, because he…" Dunthon snapped his mouth closed, very aware that he had already spoken too freely this night.

"He what, Dunthon? Is it so hard to admit that he loves you too fiercely to rush you from your beloved forests?"

With a surprising energy, the elf across from him laughed aloud, though there was no mirth in the motion. "You think he clings to these shores for my sake? You flatter me, master dwarf, for I could only hope to hold such sway with his sickness!"

"From what his resolve and strength then, if not his lifelong love?"

Dunthon took a deep breath, restoring his strength and resolve for the telling. "Do you recall your first visit to Lasgalen, when we decided to come to Ithilien?

"Remember? As I recall, I suggested it," harrumphed the bearded host.

"True enough, friend," calmed Dunthon. "What he did not speak aloud at that time was the measure he set for how long he would linger—for me, our forests and for his friends."

"There; you see?" dismissed Gimli, not pleased with the rampant insecurity. "Do not doubt he loves you, Dunthon, even in his fevers. That he remains despite them, in fact, is solid sign of his affections for us all."

The dark-haired elf corrected him with a novel, cold stare. "Not for us all. Because he could expect forever in the Undying Lands, but only a short while with his mortal friends, he vowed to remain here until all his Ringfellows had settled into their own stone beds. He holds for _you_."

Stunned by disbelief at what truly held his friends against the strong current of their destiny, he wondered aloud, "But the Greenwoods are restored, and Dundaur thrives. Though I have no wish for further farewells this season, Elessar would, I'm sure, agree that we will help you build and board your ship if it would spare you further woe. If he hesitates to save himself, then it is you who must set him sail!"

Dunthon shook his head with an empty smile, frustrated almost beyond words by his apparent conviction. "Even you, dearest friend, even you believe that _I _keep him here—holding him simply because I have no desire to leave. Through nearly ten dozen years of friendship, have you concluded me so heartless? Stubborn I am; but cruel?"

Gimli shook his own head and made to refute the accusation he had not made; but Dunthon's fatigue had boiled away. "How rich indeed for any of you to place that fault on me! How dare you!" He leapt to his feet and stalked to the bed and back. "You must think me monstrous for pinning him to our pines. But hear well that we _both_ suffer for the lingering, that I help him hold only because he has asked me to. Because he hasn't the strength alone to resist the calling—no elf does, and so I lend him mine. And for that gift, how many times has he, in sounder mind, sworn me to hold him here, only to curse me in the next addled breath, for doing so?"

His dark eyes narrowed, and he dug his hands into the back of the chair. "So often have I been sorely tempted to abandon you all, seize a ship and cut the anchor line with my own blade. But he swore to outwait you, and me to help him do so. And, no matter the abuse, I have kept my word so that he could keep his. So I will _not_ suffer blame for honoring him to your benefit!"

Gimli made to speak, but the elf's wild release gave him no chance.

Dunthon leaned menacingly over the chair, gripping it as if to choke the non-life from it as hot tears escaped his own form. "No, if we are reckoning this night, then know my true evil is how I have grown to begrudge each of you the affection that holds him here, how I have come to relish each planting in my calendar."

His friend's face was wiped to stunned silence.

"You see," Dunthon softened and explained, as he stepped back and slumped onto the bed, running his hand gently across his lover's face, "to be with Legolas, among our trees, is all I have ever wanted. And briefly, occasionally we have had that happiness; I have been complete. But he returned from your travels with a new passion, and we are no longer enough for him."

He looked back to his host, and completed his weary, roiling confession. "At first, I was happy for any cause to have him stay so that we could restore our woodland homes together. I hoped against the storied strength of the sea-calling, trusting that my crown prince and victorious Ringfellow could vanquish this adversary as well. I believed that we had finally found our place together and would remain.

"But we were not long in Ithilien when the fits took him, and the fears, me. He suffered so, that I came to understand that the only healing wood was a keel and mast, the only comforting company, the distant Valar. And so, despite my desire to remain and my distrust of our only heirs, I held hope in the ferocity of the life we had restored, and suggested we let it find its own way as he found his relief." A wet-eyed smile melted into seething as he spat, "But he would not stay for me or leave for himself, because he had sworn to wait for his _precious_ Fellows."

"After three thousand years, _my_ love is not enough to whole or hold him here; but a mere six seasons with your companions, and _that_ bond is sufficient to bind us in chains the lengths of your lifespans. Mortal lives had never seemed so endless; but for an eternal century I have helped him suffer simply to spare you the fleeting grief of his goodbye. And in my weaker moments, I have hated even you, _gwador_(1), for his oaths that bind me. So now my grove, his release, our salvation awaits only you and Elessar, and your selfishly long lives!"

He seemed to regain his control, recalling the specifics of their current situation and surroundings. He ran his hands over his flushed face, clenched his fists and dug them into his own waist as he slid down the bedside. "See me now!" he wept. "To my list of crimes, dear Gimli, we now can add keeping you from your own wife's burial feast, to confess my disdain for your excruciating longevity. Have you ever known a poorer guest or friend?" He laughed emptily and wrung his hands, raw eyes finally peeking at his host through disheveled hair, clothing and mind. "Forgive me?"

Silently, slowly, resolutely, the dwarf lord stood from his low chair and shuffled over to the bed. With equal struggle and purpose, he slid down its side to the rough, if carpeted floor. Letting out an honest "oof," he settled beside the ragged elf, and pulled a pipe and tinderbox from his elegant robes. As he lit the familiar comfort, he shared, "I suppose I am fortunate, then; my Nís did not suffer, Dunthon. I take comfort that she labored happily at her anvil that last day; we shared dinner; and I kissed her goodnight before we slept. She left me during the night, quietly and peacefully—no pain or painful farewells; she was simply gone by morning." The dwarf's voice had dropped to barely a whisper. "I do not think I could have watched her suffer and decline; for all my stubborn stamina, I am sure I haven't that strength."

He turned to the knotted elf beside him. "And so I shudder to imagine what you have endured. For I have seen your face alight at the first blossom of spring, and your heart cave in when Elessarion's mûmak passed; I know your people feel more deeply even than the sea you disdain. You especially have always worn your feelings like cloth; and though finely appointed, you are ever more ragged at our every meeting."

He drew long on his pipe, and blew an emphatic curl before them. "So, while I am not pleased to hear your pain laid at my feet, nor shall I slay myself for your freedom, neither am I blind to your suffering. I hope that it may be eased slightly by your speaking its toll tonight. And while I cannot hurry to help, it should also be clear to elven eyes especially that even Aragorn and I are nearing the end of our journeys. I would not be surprised if he chooses to pass on his crown soon—a mortal soon. And this night especially, some part of me misses and longs to join my love in a last, long sleep. We each and all have lived much, enjoying and enduring, not just for ourselves, but our peoples and all those who follow. We have earned our peace, and theirs."

Quiet to this point, Dunthon grunted at the mention of the generations to come.

Pleased to see some small fire returned to the dour friend, Gimli pressed the open honesty of the evening. "Pray tell this night of confessions, pouty prince, what is it you hold so strongly against Men?"

Dunthon considered a moment, before speaking perhaps his proudest secret of the sharing. "With Legolas beside me, and no children of our own, this world has been my life. It _is_ my life, and it is to be my legacy when I am gone from it. How often have I been reminded that it is Men who will receive my inheritance—no children of my own, none of my kind. Am I so different from to be concerned about the worthiness of my heirs? Am I mad to hold high standards for my successors? And regardless, are my doubts of them unfounded? If not at their history, then look at their attentions of late: on the force of orc-wrought crossbows, over the finesse and range of elf-gifted longbows. No, I have grown to accept their standards of 'good enough' enough, since they have so little time in which to learn and master skills. But there is too much of me in this world to hand it over to those whose presence in and passions for it are so brief."

Gimli laughed openly at the admission. "And so we have it at last! The elf who defends the apple tree against demands for pears, now judges Man for being true to his nature. My friend, the grace of your birth grants you choices in this long life that no other peoples in Middle Earth enjoy—to select when you will leave this world. You have labored hard to impart to this land an inheritance worthy of your love for it; but, like wizard and regent, not even you can guarantee your legacy. In this, we are all humbled; your shadow and echo follow you and are of you, but cannot be you. So do not waste time and passion fretting how your gifts are used. Give them, and let them go when you go."

Dunthon sat quietly for a moment, before offering a spindly hand to the smaller form beside him. "Friend dwarf, I am sure I do not name often enough how much I cherish your generosity and wisdom."

"Just recall that I never promised it was easy, but when have we ever settled for the simple path?" Gimli grasped and shook his friend's cool hand, mindful of the aging frailty both bodies showed. "We each have proven that is not in our nature."

They sat quietly a moment, until Legolas stirred briefly on the bed above them. Roused from the comforting company, Dunthon dared one imposition more. "Gimli, having only just slighted your friendship, one I have relied on so greatly these many years, at this most unfortunate of times, I have a further favor to ask of you."

"You know you have but to ask," assured the dwarf warily, if matter-of-factly through his bushy brow.

The elf faced his friend, swallowed and pled with characteristic candor, "Beyond any allowance of our friendship, I dare ask you to _seal_ the tomb."

* * *

**Text Notes**

(1) Sindarin: "sworn brother"


	9. Chapter 9

**HALSION DAYS**

by Mirwalker

**Chapter 9**

Ten dozen years after the Shadow's fall, another shadow fell finally on the united realms of men and their allied lands of dwarf, halfling and elf. This darkness of the heart, though, was not unexpected, however unwelcome and long in coming.

A Dundaur party made ready to depart for the White City, called at this unusual time of year by the long-lived king who reigned there. Now, for the first time in six score years, they made for the seat of Elessar under the first buds of spring, rather than the last wisps of autumn sun. For, though indeed great among men across ages, the king named for both elf and stone was not so permanent as either of his namesakes.

Feeling stronger for the journey than he would have expected, Legolas shook away thoughts of imminent grief to take mental stock of his travel gear. Love and work had occupied him these dozen decades, and would serve him well as he faced his next trial of spirit and stamina. Even the heavy weight of pending loss could not negate the warrior experience that had long since made this final check a habit as natural to him as breathing. Riding gear, bow, quiver, knives, whetstone and more—his mind whirred quickly through a lifetime's list. Yet still, something missing.

He checked again quickly, and then turned to counting heads and horses. Someone was missing; neither he nor his horse present or prepared. Legolas turned to see Galion approaching from the central clearing. "Galion, have you seen Dunthon?"

"My lord," said the former servant, stepping close to answer quietly, "He will not travel with you this day."

Legolas smirked in displeasure at the news, readying arguments for this, their most important sojourn among mortals. As he opened his mouth to ask why, he turned his eyes toward his flethome and caught himself short. There was something more than obstinance in the air.

He looked to Galion with a mix of irritation and worry, and placed his reigns in the elder's ready hand. He walked briskly out of the traveling party's sightlines, and took quickly to the trees.

Drawing close to their tree home, he called out for Dunthon, but heard no reply as he landed silently on the wooden platform. He glanced about the wide flet and, seeing nothing, felt about with other senses. He circled round the young trunk, and found his dark-haired mate sitting against it, facing east. Legolas' irritation melted away at the sight: His gaunt face, brilliantly pale in the glow of the sunbeam in which he sat. Eyes closed, he was draped against the tree, taking slow breaths that barely disturbed the linen shirt covering his lean frame.

Moving aside an empty water jar, Legolas knelt beside him, careful not to block the warming sun. "_Thôn?_" he whispered, repeating the familiar name three times with increasing volume before Dunthon's eyes slowly opened.

Without otherwise moving, Dunthon smiled and observed, "You are ready to make for Elessar."

Legolas nodded with knitted brow.

Dunthon turned his chin up to look more directly at Legolas, and into the sunshine. "I shall save my strength instead for another journey, my love."

Legolas settled beside him, drawing him into an embrace that left him as much exposed to the sunlight as possible. Deeply worried by this reticence, he tried to mask his concern with logic and levity. "But, the people of the city have grown fond of you also. Beyond the Court in this time of rising grief, how shall I make the craftsmen understand their teacher's absence?"

"I have trained five generations of human fletchers and bow makers. That is enough; my child-rearing days are finished and it is high time they stood on their own. Your friend needs you now; concern yourself with him. I shall hold here; for we both have obligations to keep."

Seeing no gain in arguing these points, Legolas cited one final bond. "What at least shall I tell the queen, our kin?"

Dunthon look at him with tired amusement, wondering at why he even needed to ask. "She most of all will understand. And so, I send my condolence and love to her especially. Autumn welcomes winter, and twilight heralds the evenstar. And yet our sun has not entirely set." Spent and satisfied with his statement, he closed his eyes again and settled into the sunlit cradle of the tree.

Legolas kissed him gently on the forehead, stroked his too cool cheek and made to rejoin the travel party. He stopped at the platform's edge and gazed back at the already sleeping form, torn between his desires to cradle him and to answer the king's summons. _Galion will not leave his side until I can return to it, _the prince reassured himself and leapt down to collect another farewell.

* * *

Legolas and Gimli visited with the king and court in the White City for nearly a fortnight, when the courtier finally led them to what was clearly their final audience.

As the chamberlain closed the door, he whispered to Legolas, "Her majesty would see you alone once you have visited with the King. Through the door in the opposite wall."

Legolas nodded in thanks, and turned to join Gimli at the bed's side.

"My lord," added the elderly human in an especially hushed tone, "She will receive no one save you and her children." The grief in his eyes ran clearly deeper than simply for his king.

Legolas paused, and took in the gravity of the man and his messages. Remembering his rank beyond his pain, he smiled and placed a soft hand on the bowed shoulder, "Your loving service brings comfort to us all in this trying time."

The man brightened greatly in that reassurance, and pulled the door behind him.

* * *

A short while later, Legolas entered the private chambers of the queen, just beside those of the king and connected to them by a narrow door. The stone room was dark, though his sharp eyes clearly saw the simple elegance of the few furniture pieces and wall hangings. The room's only complete beauty, the queen who had summoned him alone, sat on the window bench.

He approached and spoke to her in Sindarin, offering some last comfort and ancient familiarity while he could. "My lady, Gimli and I have taken our leave of him, and he would have us depart …before him. Eldarion's accession…"

"…Is the last step but one to secure the new world of Men." She responded in the Common speech, clearly fixed in their present surroundings. The allusion to their own final fates was enough to hold both tongues for a moment.

Legolas pressed onward first, returning to the final acts of the fading king. "And we agree that it happens best without the lingering history of elf and dwarf. If he and his folk are to succeed on their own, they and he must do so from the first."

"Yes; he, as we all now, must carry on without the old alliances."

"And so the queen mother is soon free, if not compelled, to let her children live their lives for themselves? Free to live hers again…." He paused and stepped closer, speaking in even more hushed tones an intimate offer. "There will be one ship more, one remaining chance to reclaim your first and final birthright."

She looked at him with wet and wounded eyes, scolding, "You are cruel to tempt me so, cousin; though I am thankful for your care to do it. Yet, my decision is long made; the path you suggest is closed to me by long and happy years which I would not return for all the world's ages."

Legolas nodded solemnly, not surprised, yet still saddened to hear her intentions confirmed. Hearing so, he sat beside her and offered what next he could. "Then may we take some words to your father and family?"

"My father and I took our parting 'ere he returned to Imladris and sailed; my brothers I saw on their last visit here before they pulled up the planks behind Cirdan himself just a few short seasons ago. My affection for them has no more changed than my decision, and so we are at peace." She looked out the window at the few late winter stars that shone this clear night. The clouds of grief and sadness many had expected to accompany the death of Elessar were not to be seen in the heavens this night; instead they sat heavily on the heart, mind and face of the Evenstar who recognized fully the imminence of her own fate. "And so please ask them and the stars to watch over my children and this, my chosen and final home."

Legolas took her hand in his and shuddered to feel the chill already beginning to settle within them. He took both hands in his, trying to offer some warmth and compassion as much time grew short. "I ache for you, my lady, at the thought of leaving here without you. I would not leave you alone."

She smiled a bitter smile at him, and offered insight rather than consolation. "True loneliness is not silence in solitude, dear Legolas. It is instead being audience to the unbearable clamor of conversations and lives that we can neither join nor ignore. Well within hearing, yet just beyond reach—such distant witness is the cruelest fate. My fate."

Legolas was struck utterly still, an immobility of body and mind he had not experienced since first he faced and lost heart against Durin's Bane in the depths of Moria so many years before.

In expressionless resignation and distraction, Arwen cupped his cheek in her chilled hands. "Fret not for me, brother. However harsh, my path is as freely chosen as it is fixed. Concern yourself instead with one who would remain with me. Regret not for me, but resolve your own relations." She guided his wet face to the forests east, from which a distant song sang weakly in his heart.

A soft knock at the connecting door roused both from their reverie, "My lady, he asks for you." The door remained open as the attendant retreated back through it.

Arwen turned her cousin's face back to her, concluding simply, "We thank you for your long service and friendship. _Namarië_, Legolas. Farewell." With a final kiss on his forehead, she slipped away into the dark halls of the citadel, and into the long corridors of his memory.

His eyes returned again to the window, and the view of jagged mountains and sharp tasks that lay ahead there.

* * *

A crowd of nobles and councilors talked quietly in the inner hall. From across the united lands of the West, each for himself or for his people had come to pay their last respects to the old king and to renew their fealty to the new king in his turn. Voices rang and the fires burned low this late night, unassuming measures perhaps of a reign also in its late twilight.

Gimli stood talking quietly with Elessar's children, not having been invited with Legolas to the second, private royal audience of the evening.

The great door to the hall opened, closing all mouths in anticipation of the expected announcement. Instead, in walked a silent, sad elf. The crowd parted as he walked directly toward the heir apparent of Gondor; the royal siblings and their dwarf companion also fell away, leaving Eldarion and Legolas facing one another at the center of the hall's collective attention. The dwarf could see from his long experience that the stoic elf remained on the verge of weeping.

For a moment the hall hung frozen, wondering whether the immortal archer bore news of an event unknown to his own people. _Why else would he come alone, silently and directly to the to-be-king?_

Legolas bowed deeply to the prince, "My lord, his time slips quickly, and I expect you soon to be called as were we. In the mean, having made our good-byes, we must away ourselves, but wished to take our leave of you."

Gimli stepped forth and beside his longtime friend, nodding in knowing confirmation.

The visibly young man's eyes spoke with an insight that belied his actual age of nearly ninety years; he said, nonetheless, what the courtiers expected and he still hoped. "My lords Legolas and Gimli, as is our father, we are comforted by your long familiar and friendly presence. Will you not remain with us through this ending and into the next few days?"

Ever of few words, Gimli spoke simply for his folk, "My people have helped yours rebuild the roads and walls of your kingdoms; but it is Men who have always been meant to use them under light of sun and stars. We will keep to our caverns and columns should we be needed again."

Speaking now to include all ears gathered, Legolas explained that, "You shall be the first king of Men to have lived only in this Age of Men. Middle-earth is yours, hard bought for you and yours by all our folk. For our part, we elves now leave it to you, Elessarion, to the House of Tolcontar and to your people.

"Accept now fully then, the inheritance of Man. Mind it well and rule it wisely, for we Firstborn are going from these shores, but not forgetting them. And though our silent feet shall not pass your town and trails again, even from afar they will remember fondly the lay and life of this world. In that eternal affection, we entrust it to your care."

Eldarion nodded, the first of the few who gleaned the magnitude of the parting being taken. He put out his hand to his father's friends both short and tall, and received a warm embrace from each. His sisters too took their turn, placing a kiss on both fair and fuzzy cheeks.

A subtle movement at the hall's far wall caught Eldarion's eye, and he nodded silently in that direction. Each understanding his next obligations, the imminent regent dismissed them with a grateful smile and gracious nod, "_Namarië_." Accepting their nods in return, he and his sisters joined hands and answered a final summons by their king and father.

The kingdom's attention rightly focused after them, Gimli placed a knowing pat on Legolas' arm, and the two slipped away unnoticed as Gondor gave another its goodbyes.

* * *

The dwarven-smithed gates of the White City closed on more than a small party of travelers that early morning. That band of countless years ushered out from the capital of Men for a last time, making way for what that young race would make of itself.

The wind, and indeed the world, lay still those hours before sunrise, disturbed ultimately by the peal of bells. And yet, the smell of the sea lay ever heavier on one mourner.


	10. Chapter 10

**HALSION DAYS**

by Mirwalker

**Chapter 10**

The road home from Minas Tirith seemed entirely uphill to Legolas, though he did not speak of it or anything else the entire journey. Gimli had chosen to return to Dundaur with his closest friend and final Ringfellow, and could see the struggle on him grow as they neared Osgiliath and especially as they passed through it without stopping.

He was not surprised then, as they arrived in the forest settlement, that Legolas wasted little time in seeking his husband. Himself exhausted from the long road, he was pleased, though also not surprised when Galion directed the concerned prince toward the cliff's edge, and then turned to him, saying, "Welcome, my lord. We have been expecting you."

* * *

Entering the calendar grove, Legolas was annoyed but not surprised to find Dunthon kneeling over a freshly sprouted lebethron tree. Dismissing the dutiful Ristolf to assist with the unpacking, he joined his mate in the planting effort, and breathed in the sweet scent of the tilled earth, spring blossoms and familiar elf. Their comforting presences quickly turned his initial irritation to affection and, still dusty from travel himself, he brushed away a smudge on Dunthon's face. "You are covered in dirt."

"Not yet," his gardener stated matter-of-factly. "And working the earth brings me comfort, so much more so with a little on me and you beside."

"Mentioning work, why are you not at rest, under Auramdir's supervision?" scolded Legolas.

"She tends to Elocen, who draws very near to term," answered Dunthon, ignoring the chiding, and sprinkling a little water on the sapling tree of Gondor. "It is good that you have returned with Duvenech, so that he may be at her side for this historic event." He smiled with half-forced warmth and struggled to his feet, causing Legolas to momentarily and again set aside his irritation, and shift to concern.

Legolas helped him stand, and held him briefly, relishing the presence. Emotions swirled between them at the renewed connection: comfort, grief, fatigue, longing. Dunthon caught glimpses of the farewells in the White City, and felt the struggle of turning north to Ithilien at each crossroads between Minas Tirith and Osgiliath. How near indeed they were with Elessar's passing; but still a little further before relief…

The fletcher broke away first, keeping his hand on the archer's arm as he assessed the filling glade.

Legolas too turned to an overview of his responsibilities, "And where are the rest? Halsion sits all but empty."

"At the River."

Legolas looked sharply at him, shocked to hear Dunthon volunteer any information relating to the water.

Anticipating the question, and amused at the predictable response, Dunthon answered unasked. "As you departed for the White City, I ordered the grey ship begun; with good skies and fortune, it should be completed by our wedding anniversary."

Legolas stopped fully in his tracks, halted by shocks and surprises innumerable. Cutting through the surprise and disbelief, he finally stated simply, "Dunthon, I will not leave until they all are…"

"Dead. I know," he spoke the measure bluntly, his voice blending that uniquely elven mix of sympathy and detachment. "But with Elessar's passing, it is only Gimli then on whom you wait—he, dearest of all."

"And you expect him dead in a few weeks' time?" gasped Legolas, now drawing back from Dunthon and his apparently callous intentions. "I know you have been both resistant as well as eager to have me sail and so resolve my struggle against the sea. But I had not thought your solution to be sailing when you had not wished to, and certainly not so obviously on the expectation of their deaths."

Dunthon merely shook his head wearily, with an expression Legolas could not distinguish between resignation at being caught and lack of surprise at being misunderstood. He led Legolas to the center of the crescent, and braced himself with the archer's grip as he lowered himself to his knees before an open patch of earth. Without letting go of his lover's hand, he asked simply, "Help me?"

Legolas knelt beside him, as they dug a planting hole and he continued his explanation. "Your sailing has always been the only solution, _glass_; I have long become resigned to that fate for you and all our folk. And yes, for your sake, I have quietly longed for swift relief for you without wishing them harm. But I have not begun construction in the hopes of Gimli's prompt demise; in fact, quite the contrary. My urgency is born of a hope to avoid his death here entirely. And to outpace my…"

"Enough, Dunthon!" ordered Legolas, stepping up and away, wiping his hands of more than rich soil. "There will be no more talk of… of _endings_. We both shall sail when that time comes, in its own time; and I will tolerate no word or thought of anything different." Furious, he stormed from the glade, somehow correctly heading in the direction of the settlement.

Dunthon quietly sighed in relief, recognizing the anger as a positive sign that his husband yet had energy on which to draw. He pulled an acorn from his belt pouch, gently he laid it in the deep furrow they had made, and weakly patted soil on top of it. He poured a little water over it and then took a long drink from the waterskin for himself. Closing his eyes, he lay down beside the oak-to-be, and took some additional comfort from the woodland smells and sounds around him.

* * *

Days later, the Halsion community was filled with anxious anticipation—if one knew how to look for and see barely contained elven expectancy. In the shadow of the namesake oak, the cooking fire burned smokeless against the hollowed and blackened boulder. At a nearby table, Suriel sorted cloaks and blankets, while Brêgûr and Erian practiced nautical knots in hithlain, and Gwedhwest bound surplus arrows for transport. Other members of the community were scattered around the clearing—seated at one of the other tables, or lingering on the thresholds of one of the groundhomes nestled among the denser growth.

But all eyes and ears were keyed to the healer's tent, outside which Eluvenel and the crown prince stood distractedly. Even the elf friend Gimli, sitting on the bench beside them, seemed too pre-occupied with the intricacies of his pipe.

All senses snapped to when Galion stepped through the doorflaps and quickly gestured them all to breathe again. Whispering slightly louder than he needed to for the uncle and chieftain, he explained with a knowing smile, "All is well and ready; we wait now for the family to choose their moment."

Chuckling at the shattered tension, which was already beginning to re-gather, he walked to the cookfire, and poured a warm pot over his hands. "I hope I have enough ingredients left for a few final batches of broth…," he pondered aloud as Tarlir jogged into the clearing, again teasing the waiting crowd with a false alarm.

Ignoring the silent murmurs of disappointment, and surmising there was no news yet to be had here, the forest warden approached the tall and short lords, "_Brannon nin_, a crew has arrived from the port cities, sent by the new West King. We… we wondered whether you would greet them, and see the progress as they already join the effort?"

Galion and Gimli exchanged a quick glance, as Legolas seemed to perk from his poorly-hidden melancholy. "See the ship, on the River," he whispered, before strength and resolve returned to his posture and speech. "I should welcome these friends, and review the ship, indeed."

Gimli pulled himself up with a long draw on his pipe, offering, "Perhaps your good man, Galion, and I should accompany you, young elf? I to check on my kinsmen, and he to see about these new hungry mouths, I think."

"As you wish," agreed Legolas, already stiffly walking in the direction of the building site.

Hurrying forward, Galion suggested, "Perhaps Prince Dunthon would care to join us?"

_Dunthon?_, remembered the husband, halting and casting the question beyond the great oak.

_Soon_, he felt assured from high above and not too far way. _Soon._

"He follows," Legolas threw over his shoulder to his companions, as he struggled up a tree just beyond the clearing and resumed his course for the river's coast.

Gimli waved Galion ahead—ten dozen years having brought him no additional insight for elven forest paths, even in midday light.

* * *

Legolas dropped, more than leapt, from the trees at the river's edge; and some of the elves, dwarves and men there smarted at his appearance—his belt hanging loose around his hips, his shirt hanging open, and his golden mane askew. He needed only smudges or scrapes to confirm he'd come from a battle; if he were not still clearly an elf, they could easily imagine that he reeked of the bottle.

He scanned the scene before him along the shore, where a small band of dwarven smiths worked making nails, bolts, braces and fittings alongside the just-arrived human shipwrights and sailmakers from Dol Amroth and Pelargir, dispatched here by King Eldarion at his mother's suggestion. Greenwood, Lorien and Rivendell figures move gracefully among them, assisting where their untrained but ready strength and sight could help. Taking shape now more quickly, a good-sized ship grew in their midst—already showing influences of its many makers. It would soon be ready to sail, putting to sea as evidence of a last alliance of elf, dwarf and man.

But the prince glanced past them to the slow moving current itself, shuffling through the worksite toward it. It was not until Meren stepped before him, breaking his gaze, that he woke to the reason he had been summoned.

"My lord," nodded his youngest subject, "The mannish shipmaster says we have begun well, and with the newcome hands, the ship should be ready by the New Year, nigh two hands' days!"

His mind returned to dry land and it details, Legolas truly saw the wooden deliverance blossoming before him for the first time. And as he gazed wide-eyed at it, a too familiar impatience welled in him. He felt himself inhale in preparation of barking orders to hasten; but caught the shout in his throat, his legs tense, ready to leap into the frame or the River itself. The anticipation was immense, like the intoxicating mix of fear and adrenaline when standing on the edge of a precipice: he didn't fear the falling, but rather that he would be unable _not_ to jump. How he needed to fly… How we _wanted_ that release!

Just as the heat and draw became unbearable, Legolas was overcome by a sudden chill, and his dizziness overwhelmed his will to stand. Having just caught up to him, Gimli and Galion were at his sides immediately; but he shook them off, suddenly aware that the vertigo was not his own. "Where is Dunthon?" he demanded, his senses clearing.

Just at the forest's edge behind them, where a small brook emerged from the trees and fed into the river inlet, there was a sudden thrashing and a cry for help.

Clarity brought by concern, Legolas sprinted the distance and joined Ristolf in dragging a limp form from the shallows. The royal guardsman gave way as Legolas struggled through the weeds and willow roots along the bank, with a motionless Dunthon atop him.

"We were coming to see the ship, as summoned," Ristolf stammered to Gimli, Galion and the others who had come to help. "Our progress through the trees slowed, and then he faltered, he… he fell…" Visions of their dangerous introduction to Fourth Age mûmakil flashed through the collective memories.

Galion put a quieting hand on the younger elf's shoulder, bidding him peace and silence. Seeing the growing if well-intentioned crowd, he then turned the soldier to them and modeled his waving them back to their work; this moment was not for the masses. As they all withdrew respectfully, the sage steward turned back from his sentry, to find just himself and the lead dwarf the remaining witnesses.

Himself half-soaked from the rescue, Legolas struggled to find some footing or rest that would bring his care some comfort, and eventually succeeded in settling them both upon the bank. He wiped the dark mud from Dunthon's fair face, and rocked him gently, nestled among the roots on a soft bed of grass and leaves. A breeze blew through the glade, and sunbeams lanced through the clouds and canopy in active search for the lonely pair.

"Almost made it…," lamented the shivering Dunthon, the agony of an epic failure apparent in his too soft voice, and despite a frail smile. His hand weakly reached for and caressed a pointed ear, traced the length of a golden braid and dropped to his lover's chest.

At the touch of the icy hand, Legolas felt a wave of emotion, warmth and strength pass through him, and he was reminded clearly of the source of his prolonged resistance against the sea-calling. He had remained twice as long against it, by sharing its withering effect between two hardy immortals. Diluted, as wine by water, his calling had been held at bay; and the happy decades had passed, intoxicatingly but misleadingly prolonged. And at a cost whose staggering scale was only now too obvious to him. For even those whom death would not find unassisted, could themselves seek it; and Dunthon's choice, his sacrifice swept over Legolas. "Iavasulad… _Avo 'wanna. Dartho," _he begged softly.(1)

The fletcher lay still a moment before the soft splash of tears roused him briefly, and he locked loving eyes on the face above him. His soft voice whispered as he shared his breath in more than words, reassuring his love that he would, in fact, never be leaving. "_Sinome… maruvan… tenn' Ambar-metta_."(2)

Trembling with impotence, Legolas could do no more than look down into the glazing eyes, and stroke the sharp cheek and matted hair. He could not argue or act to change this fate, and that unfamiliar incompetence ground away within him as much as the building grief itself. He tried even to be angry with his husband for selflessly tipping the balance between them, and at his own selfish friendship for having made it necessary. But even their physical connection was not enough for him to force another conclusion to the century.

Focusing on the affection offered, Dunthon asked confidently, "Remember me to your father and all our folk, and look back fondly on our time together here, on these, our Halsion days? I will be waiting for you, _meleth minai nîn, uthinnagalen nîn_." My only love, my evergreen.(3)

Glancing skyward as his mind drifted, he mused, "I had hoped that it would be raining this day…." Forcing his focus to return, he dropped his gaze back to his haggard husband. With a tired finger, he caught a tear streaming down his prince's face, and traced it to the tightly drawn lips where Legolas traded a gentle kiss for the salty droplet. "Grant me this last favor: follow these at long last to your freedom."

Legolas glanced up at the river, and the ship just upstream, eminently appealing and entirely unacceptable in this same instant.

Dunthon raised his voice to a presence he trusted to be near. "I have your word, Gimli…," he reminded with a surprising forcefulness.

Turning back to Legolas, he smiled drowsily and exhaled, "_Anamarië_…"(4)

The broad tree above them groaned and shuddered as final breaths were carried on the breeze, into the forest and beyond the bounds of wood, water and sky. Above them, the sun shone, the birds chirped, the mountains stood tall, and nearby, the River ran to the sea.

Legolas sat very still, staring into the empty eyes looking up at him, as if waiting for some next word or subtle movement.

Galion, already on one knee in both reverence and regret, dropped his face into his hands. Gimli, much jested for his natural proximity to his beloved earth, dropped to it ungraciously, drawn down by the weight of his own and his friend's sorrow. Even the hesitant hammering and shouting at the ship, which had paused only briefly at the initial prince's arrival, these too fell still and silent as the change in the woods was palpable even to those not so finely tuned to them.

A sharp sob finally broke the prince's stillness, and he looked up, face freshly damp, mouth agape and expression dumbstruck. Glancing around, straining as though for something suddenly absent, he demanded, "What is this silence that settles on the world?" His sensitive ears rang with the loss of a comforting presence that had pre-dated him into and now preceded him from this life; the harmony's loss left his own melody naked, barren and bland.

He looked at and pled of the two closest onlookers, lifting the limp form, "What is this strange sleep that comes to steal my Song from me…!?" Choking on his accusation, he bent over the still figure in his arms and held tightly.

After several eternal moments, Legolas shifted suddenly and lovingly laid Dunthon before him, reached over his own shoulder and drew one of his fabled white knives.

Gimli started and moved to stand, appalled that his friend might consider heaping some additional loss upon a friendship, community and forest that were already thick with grief. With elven speed, Galion caught him by the arm, clear that their presence alone was intrusion enough on this immensely private moment.

With Gimli watching in horror, Legolas raised the knife, pulled harshly at one of his signature golden braids, and let out a shrill cry, bereft of all the beauty for which his folk's tongues were known. He brought down the blade with invisible speed, and did not even grimace as the blade sliced the woven strands. Tenderly placing the plait in Dunthon's still hand, he carefully sliced off one the sleeper's dark tresses, the trade complete.

And nearby, the River ran to the sea.

* * *

In the short weeks afterwards, the remaining Dundaur prince said little after instructing that music, song or story was to surround him constantly; silence was forbidden in his presence, though he paid no attention to its content except that there be some constant sound. He took no joy or even interest in the daily tasks of departure, leaving Galion and Gimli to oversee the completion of the ship and the erasure of the settlement from the woods. He passed his time in a small, oddly crowded glen that overlooked the Anduin valley.

Gimli sent final instructions and wishes to Aglarond, dispatched with his smiths as they completed their tasks.

So, too the Gondorian craftsmen were thanked and sent on their way with the elven handicrafts that were not to sail.

Duvenech and Elocen worked to take no offense at their leader's complete oblivion to their newborn daughter, who joined the community as Dunthon departed it, and who was named for his request and promise of love for lifemate, lord and land. Little Anamarië would never know her namer or birthplace, for she was born in traveling clothes.

The only exception to Legolas' solitary reverie came at the end of a simple ceremony marking the calendar grove's completion. As the other Dundaur residents stepped silently away, their prince caught the dwarf chief by his sleeve before he could take his leave. "What 'word' did you give, Gimli? I was blind to his century's gift; I would know his last intentions."

"We spoke at length the night of my Nís' memorial feast, when you were strongly taken with the calling." He sighed to remember that difficult evening, and struggled with whether to share it. But his friend had asked, and perhaps the telling would help the healing. And so, he settled beside his fellow widower, and recounted the promise. "He asked me to seal her tomb, to forego my place there for another eternal companion…"

* * *

"I cannot. I will not!" declared the dwarf, stumbling to his feet. "Though it seems a rare and generous offer—" _To enter Valinor, to see the Lady_ _again!_ "But it is your birthright, not mine. There is no way to know whether it is even possible…" He dropped into his chair, and gulped his goblet of water as if it were the strongest ale.

"Precisely," said Dunthon, standing at Legolas' bedside with a newfound resolve. "So, good Gimli, know that I am _giving_ you nothing. In truth, on this day of loss, I am asking of you everything you have left… I am asking you to give up your people, your position here and your place beside her, and to make one final perilous journey with him."

Gimli glowered, struggling to believe the circumstance, much less the request.

The dark-haired elf ran a hand down his own bony cheek, "See that this body has borrowed from him nearly all the burden it will bear. If honest, I come to understand that it likely will not see the ship complete. And so I must ask you, who also loves him dearly, to see him aboard and across, if I cannot. I love him so, but do not trust his longing to overtake his grief enough. Despite the calling, he will resist leaving without me; he will need your support in that unbearable time."

"But you are meant to be together," protested the smaller figure. "To look out together from the Undying Lands—that is your destiny."

Joining him at the chairs, Dunthon shook his head slightly, "Mine has been to ensure him there, not assured to be there myself. Valinor is one possible ending, Gimli; not a guarantee. Besides, what bring I to a land where the leaves never fall? What need is there for one who heralds autumn in a land of eternal spring? Such climes are those of greenleaf alone."

"But you were named as a call to sail for your peoples; you told me so yourself when first we met. You marked the time of change."

"Perhaps I am autumn's herald only. The invitation, not the feast. The threshold, not the home. The farewell, not the journey... Leaves' migration and winter's sleep are fully upon the world of elves, and thus we have reached our end here. I have helped Legolas reach this crossroads, but he _must_ make the crossing. And I need you to help him do so."

"There must be some other…"

Dunthon reached out and took Gimli's hand again. "We are fading. No river runs backwards, nor setting sun rises. And I am ever more convinced that mine shall set sooner than his; and if one must, it shall be me, and you shall take my seat on the last Grey Ship."

Gimli tried unsuccessfully to pull his hand away as he shook his head fiercely in refusal.

"You must take mine if I cannot, else two may go empty," explained the elf, desperation strengthening his refusal to let go. "If available, my seat is no boon. Again I have no guarantee, only hope, that you will even be allowed to make the crossing. Your trip could well end… unwell, if Ringfellow elvellon is not credential enough. And so I do not ask you lightly to take on a great responsibility and risk, a final adventure whose only certain outcome is that you neither shall return.

"I ask too much, I know; but I ask for him." The namesake prince of Dundaur, fletcher to the court and kingdom of Lasgalen and bearer of the royal title Ecthelgedon, fell to his knees before the Lord of the Glittering Caves, bowed his head against clasped hands, and petitioned simply, "Please?"

The Aglarond chief looked down into the tangled hair before him, and glanced as his closest friend nearby—aching at his inability to do more for those he loved so dearly. He thought of kin and companions already claimed in battle or succumbed to long years, of his beloved lady with whom he had danced short days before, and of how he worked to make their sacrifice and loss worthwhile. Beyond his own peoples, before him in this room and in a city at the far end of this mountain range, remained the few souls who now meant the world to him. And he glimpsed the opportunity to ensure that his own diminishing life—more than his approaching death—could make at least one final contribution to them.

He raised his hands to look Dunthon in the eye. "And should we complete the journey without you, what then?"

The elf's shared his first honest smile of the evening. "On the parting that ultimately begot your friendship with us, Legolas told me to take solace in each sunrise. On your arrival on the far shores, I ask you now to remind him of those same parting words: Though you sail west, he should look east as often as he can. For every new day of forever, encourage him to greet me as he meets each day, to seek me here, in the sunrise."

Weeping openly, Gimli nodded his understanding and assent, even as he offered silent prayers against the eventuality.

"I then have your word?" Dunthon's entire person pled with his friend for the irrevocable assurance that would bring him some final hope in these last days.

"Aye. Though Aulë forbid it should need be so, I will see him sail as you have asked. You have my word."

* * *

Legolas only nodded his awareness that the story had been shared, and released his grip on the dwarf's arm. He turned back to the low earth mound, even as Gimli renewed his vow at the center of the concentric groves, "And in the honorable name of all those here represented, I shall see it so."

* * *

On the eve of the new year, a short figure stood at the bow of the grey ship, holding a small object delicately in his hand. The dwarf-made gem of amber occasionally caught the star and moonlight. But it was not the bauble itself that sparked the bearded sailor's excitement this night. It was the three silken strands embedded within, or more accurately, their original owner who played centrally on his attention. The beautiful lady lay ahead of him; she and her gods willing, he and his friend would soon know the pleasure of her radiant smile once more.

A tall figure stood at the ship's rear, clutching a handful of small objects to his chest. The elf-grown seeds of oak pressed both smooth and rough against palms well accustomed to both. But it was not the acorns themselves that ruled the single-braided warrior's melancholy on the sea. It was the green potential within them, or more accurately, their original caretaker who played centrally in his affections. That beautiful life lay behind him, resting in a silent heart and the quiet woods now alive to him only in his eternal memory.

The grey ship slipped silently across a dark sea of silver glass, drawn to a new life as surely as it was drawn away from another.

* * *

Facing the same heading, but far inland from that sea, rows of towering figures stood along a wooded cliffside. A line of motley growths marked the forest's edge and the clearing's boundary, protecting a similar circle of older and newer trunks nearer the edge. And there, in the center of that smaller grove, beside a quickly growing oak sapling, a shallow patch of earth pointed west. And from it, new grass was already beginning to grow.

####

"The love of the Elves for their land and their works is deeper than the deeps of the Sea,  
and their regret is undying and cannot ever wholly be assuaged."  
--Galadriel, in the Mirror of Galadriel, Book 2, Chapter VI, _The_ _Fellowship of the Ring_

"Alas for us all! And for all that walk the world in these after-days.  
For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running stream.  
You have not forsaken your companions, and the least reward that you shall have  
is that the memory … shall remain ever clear and unstained in your heart,  
and shall neither fade nor grow stale."  
--Legolas to Gimli, in Farewell to Lorien, Chapter VIII, _The Lord of the Rings_

* * *

**Text Notes**

1 Sindarin: "Don't leave. Stay!" (The lenited _gwanna, _also means "to die.")

2 Quenya: "In this place… I will abide… unto the ending of the world." The phrase uttered by Elendil on his arrival in Middle-Earth; later repeated by Aragorn on his coronation as King of Gondor. Missing is the phrase _ar Hildinyar _"and my heirs."

3 Sindarin: actual translation "My one love. My green without fading."

4 Variation on _al- _"no, not" + Quenya _namari_ë"farewell"

* * *

**Timeline**

_Italics indicate in-story (non-canon) events_

III. Third Age.

3019 (SR1419)  
26 February. Death of Boromir.  
25 March. The Ring is destroyed and Sauron passes.  
6 April. Celeborn and Thranduil meet, rename and divide Mirkwood.  
Mid-year's Day: Aragorn and Arwen marry  
22 August. Fellowship disbands at Isengard  
3 November: Saruman killed; End of the War of the Ring.

3020 (SR1420: The Great Year of Plenty)  
_Early spring. Legolas and Gimli arrive in Eryn Lasgalen.  
_1 May: Sam marries Rose.  
_After Mid-summer's Day: Legolas, Dunthon and guard scout Ithilien and receive permissions to make a settlement there._

3021 (SR1421)  
_6 April. Legolas marries Dunthon in Eryn Lasgalen. Shortly thereafter, a host of Wood-Elves migrate to Ithilien and begin restoring its forest.  
_29 September: Frodo, Bilbo and Three Keepers (Gandalf, Galadriel, Elrond) sail West. _Dunthon plants the first memorials near Halsion._

IV. FOURTH AGE

30 (SR1451)  
Approximate birth of Eldarion, son of Arwen and Aragorn. (Making him 90 at his succession.)

61 (SR1482)  
Mid-year's Day. Rose Cotton Gamgee dies.  
Late September. Sam sails West.  
_October. Mûmakil discovered in Ithilien._

63 (SR1484)  
Autumn. King Eomer dies.

c.70 (SR1491)  
Meriadoc and Pippin die; are laid in the halls of Gondor.

82 (SR1503)  
_Elcocen is kidnapped from Dundaur.  
_Faramir dies.

96 (SR1517)  
_Early autumn. Thranduil takes the last of the Silvan elves west, entrusting his lands to the kings of Dale and Erebor._

111 (SR1532)  
_Lady Nís of Aglarond dies._

120 (SR1541)  
1 March. Aragorn Elessar dies.  
_Duthon dies; Anamarië is born in Ithilien.  
_6 April. Legolas, Gimli _and Dundaur elves _sail West.

121 (SR1542)  
Arwen dies in Lorien.

**

* * *

****Glossary of Names **(_Names are Sindarin unless stated otherwise)_

Aduial: "evening, evendim"

Anamarië, lastborn elf in Middle-earth, daughter of Elocen and Duvenech: variation on _al- _"no, not" + Quenya _namari_ë "farewell." (In modern, mundane languages, Anamarie means "bitter" or "grace.")

Auramdir: _aur_ "morning" + _amdir _"hope (based on reason)"

Brêgûr: _brêg _"fierce" + _gûr _"heart, counsel"

Clair: variation on _claur _"splendour, glory"

Duvenech, Legolas' captain in Ithilien: _dúven_ "southern" + _ech _"spear"

Elocen, Lorien elf, twin of Eluvenel and wife to Duvenech: _elo _"exclamation of wonder, delight" + _cen- _"to see"

Eluvenel, Lorien elf, twin of Elocen: _elu _"pale blue" + lenited _menel _"sky"

Erethir: variation on _erin _"on the" + _ethir _"mouth of river"

Erian: from _erio _"to rise"

Ethuil: the season of spring

Galion, Thranduil's butler: _gal_ "light" + _ion_ "son of"

Gwedhwest: _gwedhi _"to bind" + lenited variation of _gwest _"oath"

Haethros: _hae_ "far, remote" + lenited _rhoss_ "whisper"

Halsion: variation of _hall _"exalted, high" + _ion_ "son of"

Leithian: "release, freeing"

Lendlir: _lend_ "journey" or "sweet" + lenited _glîr _"song"

Meren: "festive, joyous"

Ristolf, Dunthon's personal guard: _risto- _"to cut, rip" + lenited _golf _"branch"

Suriel: from the Quenya _súrë_ "wind"

Tarlir: variation on _taur _"forest" + _lind_ "air, tune"

Úrsir: _ûr _"wide" + unlenited _sîr _"river"


End file.
